A City of Broken Stone
by hooded mage
Summary: The Forsworn terrorise the Reach. Backstabbing and intrigue threaten to break the court of Markarth. Ancient secrets below the city are disturbed, and now the Imperials want to hand Markarth over to the Stormcloaks? Over Jarl Igmund's dead body.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Thank you for clicking on the first chapter of my new story. I don't have a lot to say as we haven't even got started yet, but I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you let me know your thoughts!**

* * *

"I hate Bretons," murmured Calcelmo as the glittering procession passed through the halls of Understone Keep. "These insufferable fools, that ghastly man who runs the kitchen and the barbarians in the hills."

"I'm not sure if they truly count as Bretons, Uncle," said Aicantar with a small smirk. He watched with arms folded as scholars and soldiers trundled passed, followed by workers in rags pulling carts of tools and provisions. "The men and women of The Reach seem to have an identity all of their own."

"A debatable but astute point," replied Calcelmo. The old Elf's eyes darkened as he recognised someone in the crowd. "Very well, I hate _these_ Bretons. There, do you see him? The one with the greasy moustache? _That's_ the one who started all of this."

"Staubin?"

"Yes, that's his name. Disgusting fellow and more stubborn than those not-Bretons who infest the hills. To think Jarl Igmund gave him permission to tear apart Nchuand-Zel. I told him, I told _them_ that it's a fool's errand and they'll all end up killed, and my work will be ruined."

"They didn't care, did they, Uncle?"

"No they didn't. As brave as they are, they're stupid and stubborn and-"

"And this is the fourth time today I've heard you complain about it," said Aicantar with a laugh, flashing his teeth at his frowning Uncle Calcelmo. The procession of excavators had passed them by, and Aicantar started to follow them down the dark grey, rubble-strewn tunnels of Markarth. A great cavern met them on the far side. Brown earth was cut with great stone slabs, and grey rock created a vaulted ceiling. Tables and carts littered the room, both spilling over with the intricate bronze machinations of the Dwemer. Glowing enchanters and yellowed spell tomes filled Calcelmo's sacred corner of study, and the old Elf starred down anyone who ventured too close.

The procession marched unfalteringly through the cavern where they met the banks of a roaring river which glittered and shimmered in the hazy blue light of the cavern. A stone bridge led them to their destination – an imposing bronze door, intricately decorated with the jagged designs of the ancient Dwemer. It reached entirely to the ceiling, and it was only here that the march ended.

"It seems the whole court has come to watch this insult," said Calcelmo. He pointed to a hollow stone tower capped in bronze. There stood delegations from the many factions that made up the heart of Markarth. In shining metal armour stood Legate Emmanuel Admand, Captain of the Imperial Legion in The Reach. "I don't think the Legate ever smiles," said Calcelmo, not taking his eyes off the tower.

"I don't think you do either, Uncle," said Aicantar in a flash. "Another Breton you hate?"

"A Breton I can tolerate as a matter of fact, as much as anyone can tolerate a shiny tin can with no thought other than Imperial doctrine."

"Don't tell me you hate Imperials too now."

"Not at all, but I expect the best and brightest amongst the Legion to have original thought."

"It doesn't help that he personally supplied half the Imperial soldiers joining this expedition," said Aicantar. As tired as he was of his uncle's constant whining, he did enjoy stirring the pot slightly.

"I can almost forgive him for handing over the soldiers. The orders came from Jarl Igmund, and even if he wanted to refuse he couldn't. A Legate is nothing to a Jarl."

Staubin took his place as the head of the procession. His black moustache tickled the collar of his simple robes. Basic blue design with a yellow hem adorned all researches in the expedition. Staubin stood out only by a gold brooch of a tower on his breast. There was silence amongst those gathered as he ceremoniously pulled out a chunky bronze key from his robes and slotted it into the keyhole of the Dwemer door of the same design. The clang of metal vibrated through the room, and a high shriek filled the air as the door was dragged open. Without a glance back, he and his expedition of researchers, soldiers and workers disappeared into dust and darkness.

As the great bronze doors slammed shut, Calcelmo sighed and floated back towards the Keep with Aicantar at his heels. Those gathered to watch the expedition quickly began to disperse. People filtered down stone walkways from the towers and skirted around inanimate metal monsters.

"Uncle, we may never see those men again," said Aicantar with a frown.

"We may not, but they knew that before they ever stepped foot in Markarth," said Calcelmo.

"I spoke to one of them yesterday. He was old and grey, and he told me that he'd survived countless such expeditions. He told me the trick to getting out alive."

"Sacrifice everyone and anyone. It's almost doctrine in certain academic circles," said Calcelmo without missing a beat.

"It's vile."

"It's work. I can't stand it myself if simply for the lack of logic. If one can't survive a situation with an armed guard, one isn't going to survive by themselves. Keep as many people alive and fit, and the expedition should be a success," said Calcelmo with a stern, lecture-like voice. "I've met countless academics willing to sacrifice anything for a trinket. I've seen first-hand what those kind of men and women do. It's the workers that go first – the miners and labourers. If food runs low, then they starve. If they're injured, then they're left to die. No use wasting valuable potions or magic on someone barely human."

"Uncle!" said Aicantar, grabbing his uncle by the arm and stopping him in his tracks.

"It's not my opinion, my boy. It is simple observation. Argonians, Khajiit, Dunmer. They go first. Not the strongest, not the fastest, never the most useful in the eyes of blind fools."

"Uncle, did you never challenge these-"

"It's the Orcs that academics prize. Strong, loyal, tough. They can survive for days on bloodlust alone, and the right Orc is worth ten good men."

"Those skinny fools won't be nabbing themselves this Orc," said a new voice.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that unpleasantness, Moth," said Aicantar with a slight bow.

The Orc, Moth gro-Bagol, held up a meaty green hand in forgiveness. His tusked face was black with soot and his arms bulged with muscle. "Your Uncle's right. Many good Orcs leave their strongholds to work for weak men."

"You left your stronghold to work for the Empire. I see little difference," said Aicantar. There was a pause while Moth towered over him, his tusks turning into a frown. Aicantar raised his entire slight frame to meet him. The showdown only lasted a few seconds before they both cracked a smile and Moth slapped Aicantar hard on the back.

"Those days are well behind me, and I distinctly remember you preaching your support for the Empire."

"I had no choice. It's not like the Stormcloaks will welcome an Altmer with open arms."

"Or you could not meddle in war or politics, two things you have no business with," Moth said sternly but kindly.

"Leave the boy alone, Moth," said Calcelmo with a gentle hand. "He's young and wants to know the world still. Moth is right, however, do not distract yourself from research with silly notions of glorious war. We are Elves. We have no business involving ourselves in this war, nor are we welcome to do so."

"I have no wish to fight, Uncle, but I hear Stormcloaks are travelling from city to city ousting and murdering any Elf they find. I cannot help but be appalled."

"I would be careful, Aicantar. Jarl Igmund may sell himself to the Imperials, but the Stormcloaks do not lack friends in this city," said Calcelmo.

Their meandering had found them in the great hall of Understone Keep. Thick stone steps led upwards to levels of the keep with doors and passages leading to more doors and passages in the labyrinth. Brass statues of Dwemer automatons rested on plinths and platforms, frozen in time. Metal skeletons brandishing swords and crossbows rose from spheres and hulking giants of imitated muscle crashed hammers into the stone. It was grand, if not dark and intimidating.

Giant burners protruded from the ground and hung from the ceiling, lighting the room with an orange glow that glittered off every surface. A thick haze of smoke added mystery to the grand design.

Through the haze, shapes of people could be seen, from lowly kitchen girls carrying laundry to glittering Imperial soldiers dressed in steel that shone like silver. The rich and noble minced across the stone with furs and gowns flapping. The keep was busy with echoes of a well-oiled autocracy.

Aicantar stared for a moment at the soldiers and the nobles and the commoners, thought briefly about his place somewhere on the outside of it all, and wondered idly about how many people in this hall longed for rebellion while bowing to the Jarl and dutifully paid their taxes.

"Factions within factions…" he whispered to himself.

"Moth gro-Bagol?" asked a timid servant boy as he skittered towards the trio. "Calcelmo?"

" _Court Wizard_ Calcelmo, but yes you have the pleasure," said Calcelmo looking down at the boy. A Breton.

"Jarl Igmund requests to see you both in the war room. A matter of urgency," he said rather hurriedly.

"It's always a matter of urgency with Jarl Igmund. We misplace a bar of silver form the treasury and Markarth is under siege," said Moth with a huff.

"It is still not wise to ignore such summons," said Calcelmo. His eyes glanced to the highest level of the keep, behind which the haze hid the Mournful Throne and the war room. "Aicantar, do whatever it is you do when I'm busy," said Calcelmo as he drifted up the stairs. Both Aicantar and the servant gave graceful bows, glanced at each other and scattered.

* * *

Fresh air did not exist in Markarth. Aicantar left the smoke of Understone Keep to breath in the smog of industry. The city rose from the ground in tiers up a high mountain that dominated the area. Many buildings were carved straight into the mountain, and those that weren't were nestled in its cracks and overhangs. A sharp spire of rock dissected he city, upon which the imposing guards tower and radiant Temple of Dibella were held aloft. It was the south side of the spire that spewed the acrid smoke. Water mills, forges, smelters, refineries, factories. All pumped out black dirt into the city and rang with the cries of hammered metal. At the far end of the city, a great cave opened up into the mountain. Cidhna Mine. Grey dust and silver fell from its jaws. It was the source of most of the wealth in the city and acted as the most secure prison in Skyrim.

It was into the smoke that Aicantar strolled. He wandered under the shade of stone pillars and hanging gardens that formed the façade of Understone Keep. Two waterfalls roared their way over the metal statues of the long dead Dwemer that were hammered into the grey walls. They sprayed a cool mist on Aicantar as he passed under them and into the Industrial District. He headed towards the great waterworks in the centre of the district that straddled one of the three blue rivers that flowed through the city. Its wooden walkways housed the waterwheel that powered the entire district with its constant churning. In the centre of it all sat one of the greatest forges in all of Markarth, resting on a stone island in the roaring river. Aicantar smiled and dipped under a low-hanging beam to be greeted a hot blast from the forge.

"Aicantar, hand me the mallet," growled a throaty voice.

"Ghorza, it's about time you found yourself a new apprentice," said Aicantar, obediently handing over the mallet.

"In fact I have, but the boy is useless. It baffles me how the Imperials once had an Empire spanning Tamriel yet their 'best' apprentices can't forge a nail."

"He's learning from the best. If you can't teach him how to forge steel, then no one can."

"Don't let my brother hear that or he'll have a fit. How is Moth doing? I haven't seen him all day." Ghorza gra-Bagol hammered a sword blade into a simple iron hilt. Her leather apron was tied tightly round her thick waist, shaping her hips and breast. She wasn't as muscular as her brother, but Aicantar had seen her throw a punch and he vowed never to be on the receiving end.

"He's up in the Keep. My Uncle and I bumped into him after the researches delved into Nchuand-Zel."

"Those Bretons? A waste of time if you ask me, but they bought up half my stock on their way through. A Breton that's good for business is all I can ask for."

"Ghorza, I have the iron you asked for. Oh," said a voice behind them. "I'm sorry, I'll come back when you don't have company."

"Stay, Tacitus. An apprentice is always welcome at his forge. This is Aicantar, an Altmer and mage," said Ghorza gruffly.

Aicantar extended a hand to Tacitus who grasped for it eagerly, his calloused palms rubbing against Aicantar's soft hands. Aicantar glanced up at the dark face of the young Imperial. Blue eyes poked from under blonde hair and dirty skin.

"There's a little more to me than just my magic or my race, but it's a good enough introduction," said Aicantar with a soft smile that Tacitus returned with dimples.

"I'm afraid I'm pretty much how Ghorza describes me. Imperial apprentice, and a slow one at that," Tacitus said, his eyes drooping slightly. Aicantar felt a pang of sympathy.

"You're damn right, boy, but we can chat pleasantries when there isn't work to be done. Now, Aicantar, you came here for a reason?" Ghorza asked.

"Yes." He cast a glance at Tacitus and pulled a worn leather bag from his robes. He placed the bag on a wooden table strewn with weapons of all description. Lifting the flap, he slid out chunks of intricately detailed metal. Instantly, Ghorza rushed to the table and grabbed a twisted piece of brass metal that may once have been a lever.

"Dwarven…" she admired piece after piece. "You finally managed to make good on your promise. There's possibly two ingots here, maybe three."

"It's not easy smuggling anything out of the museum, but my uncle shouldn't notice these pieces missing. I always come through in the end," said Aicantar, smiling at her excitement over the scraps of metal.

Tacitus stood awkwardly at the side-line. He had met very few people in Markarth so far. Ghorza was tough but kind, and Aicantar seemed interesting. He'd never spoken to an Elf before, nor a smuggler of Dwarven goods. As Ghorza tucked the metal away with glee, Tacitus was staring at Aicantar. From what he could see under the hood, Aicantar had large blue eyes, fat lips, a cut jaw and pointed chin. Handsome, with a mischievous air. Markarth was going to be far more interesting than anywhere else he'd been.

"Aicantar, thank you. I shall call on you when I have made whatever it is I shall be making with this gift," Ghorza said, smoothing down her apron.

"I wait in eager anticipation," said Aicantar with a smile and bowed out of the forge.

"He seems nice," said Tacitus.

"A good soul which is rare in Markarth, but people don't trust Elves. People don't tend to trust Orcs either; it's how we became friends."

"I don't mind Elves nor Orcs."

"Then you could make a lot worse friends than him."

* * *

The war room was as grand as any other room in Understone Keep. A large stone table resplendent in copper joining filled the centre of the room. It was complete with a set of unwieldy and uncomfortable stone chairs, each occupied by stone-faced people.

Jarl Igmund stood at the head of the table, hands pressed on the stone surface, his eyes glued to a detailed map of The Reach. His hair was grey and military cropped, and his beard neat and trimmed. Brown furs hugged his neck and chin, and lavish green robes and jewels adorned his body. The twirling horns of a ram, the symbol of Markarth and The Reach, emblazoned his chest. He was dressed as a Jarl, but those in the room saw him as a warrior.

"Another attack," he said simply and gruffly. His voice was deep and weary but spat venom. "The Khajiit caravan was slaughtered on the road." He inked a spot just south of Markarth on the map.

"This is not good news, my Jarl, but nor is it urgent," said Legate Emmanuel Admand, the only man in the room rivalling Jarl Igmund for the intimidation factor. It seemed as if he never took off his thick steel armour. "The Khajiit were of no importance. All they brought was petty trade and skooma. Hopefully now that vile drug may disappear from the streets."

"It's more than that, Legate. The Khajiit are tough and durable. They pay the best coin for the best guards. All of which were slaughtered. If the Khajiit cannot make it to the city, then no one can. Anyone sent out of those gates are dead men. The entire Reach is all but lost to those Forsworn bastards." His emotions got the better of him and he slammed his fist on the table. An audible crack was heard, but Jarl Igmund did not flinch. Calcelmo did.

"I have no men to spare," said Legate Emmanuel simply and without emotion as the sound of Jarl Igmund's broken knuckle still echoed around the room.

"I know, Legate. It would take a whole Century to be safe in the countryside."

"My Jarl, if I may?" asked Calcelmo, steadily rising to his feet.

"Proceed," said Jarl Igmund, sinking into his chair, his red hand clutched in the other.

"How are the Forsworn able to do this? They are barbarous, pelt wearing, animal worshipping Bretons- "

"Watch it," cut in Legate Emmanuel sternly.

"With no central organisation. By all reports their camps and towers operate quite independently from one another. How are they able to defeat a respected mercenary band and our own soldiers?"

"It is because of those traits, not despite them, that the Forsworn are so strong. You destroy one base and there's a dozen more out there to be found. They know this land better than anyone, can strike in a heartbeat and then melt away." Jarl Igmund had stood up once more. "And they have magic."

"Hedge wizards at best, my Jarl. They have no true magical talent," replied Calcelmo.

"True, but no soldier can fight their best with fire raining down on them, no matter how simple the spell. Besides, it's not just their mages. We have increasingly more reports of something worse. Hagravens."

"Surely not," whispered Calcelmo.

"Indeed. Yes, we wiped out many of their nests during our last crusade, but they are back at the head of the Forsworn horde."

Thongvor Silver-blood stood up for the first time during the meeting. He was clad in dull steel, leather and fur. His bald head had started to wrinkle, and old scars had begun to deepen. Of all the nobility in The Reach, his clan was the most powerful. He and his brother owned all the silver in Markarth, half the property and half the guard. "Jarl Igmund, I personally led the raids on the Hagraven nests. I killed many of them myself and lost many, many good men to their foul claws and magic. We didn't leave a single one alive."

Jarl Igmund shook his head. He silently reached to the base of his chair and threw the mangled head of a Hagraven onto the stone table. Bloodied grey hair spewed from the crooked and wart-marked head of an old crone with a nose like a raven's beak. The stench was of death and must. "Found on the road with the dead Khajiit. Believe me when I say we left behind a body with wings and talons. They have returned."

"Then they must be stamped out," said Thongvor, staring at the head in disgust.

"Hagravens or not, I cannot lend the men," said Legate Emmanuel, his arms crossed.

"No, we have proven that these beasts cannot be eradicated. A lone Hagraven is little threat and can be ignored. A Hagraven at the head of a Forsworn army is the most dangerous enemy to us all. They bolster the forces with dark magic and breed with their most depraved," said Jarl Igmund. Once more he picked up his quill and slowly marked a spot on the map. It was an island in the middle of the mighty Karth River that flowed through the map as it did The Reach. "Karthspire. A sprawling camp on the river. Well defended and filling with more Forsworn soldiers every day. It is one of the few camps we have an eye on and appears to be one of the largest. This could be our biggest blow to the Forsworn in years."

Legate Emmanuel breathed in deeply. "A single Century is all I have stationed in this city. I will not send the men out to be slaughtered and leave the city undefended."

"This threat cannot be ignored, Legate," said Jarl Igmund sternly.

"And why not? Let the Forsworn stay. We do not have the power to wage a war against Ulfric _and_ the beasts. We are safe in Markarth, and it's a fool's errand to chase after the Forsworn."

"That's a very Imperial view, Legate. Hiding behind bigger men and bigger walls," said Thongvor Silver-blood with a smirk.

Legate Emmanuel slowly leaned on the table, pressing his bald and scarred face closer to that of Thongvor's. "That sounds very Stormcloak of you, Silver-blood. I don't know what I'd have to do if I found a Stormcloak supporter in Markarth."

"Hide in your bedroom and ignore them as if they were Forsworn, I suppose," said Thongvor without missing a beat. Legate Emmanuel had almost got Thongvor by the throat when Jarl Igmund smashed his glass on the table between them, coating the two men with wine and glass.

"Enough! That settles it. Thongvor, you and your men shall lead the attack on Karthspire."

"My Jarl-"

"Since you don't like hiding behind bigger men and bigger walls, and since it hasn't escaped my notice that the largest clan in The Reach hasn't sent any men to fight the Stormcloaks, you can put your soldiers to good use," he said.

"Jarl Igmund, as I've told you my men are busy guarding our mines and farms," said Thongvor, panicking.

"Either send your soldiers to Karthspire, or send them to the frontlines. That is final."

Before Thongvor Silver-blood could conjure up another reply, Jarl Igmund straightened himself and addressed the entire room. "The siege on Karthspire will begin in two days. The Silver-blood family has kindly offered to send their troops to fight the Forsworn. Will they go alone?"

This was the part of a war meeting that most people dreaded. At the high end of the table sat Jarl Igmund, Thongvor Silver-blood and Legate Emmanuel Admand. At the lower end of the table sat those with no title like Calcelmo and Moth gro-Bagol. In between was a sea of nobles, advisers, diplomats and merchants, both high and low. Those holding land and men were now invited to speak. None of them wanted to do so. Most had sent their men to fight the Stormcloaks. Those that still had soldiers were reluctant to release them. The table was uneasy.

"My Jarl, I don't know what you think we have to offer," said the first brave voice. Jarl Igmund turned to look at the man kindly. "My brothers, my sons, my workers, all have gone to fight the Stormcloaks. My mine is working on a skeleton force. I rely on the generosity of the City of Markarth as it is to defend my small land." The voice belonged to Lord Skaggi Scar-Face, a lesser noble in the court of Markarth. He owned a small village and iron mine just outside the city. His namesake cut deeply across his lips and up his cheek.

"Lord Skaggi, I know your sacrifices already. I do not expect you to give that which you do not have," said Jarl Igmund with a nod, inviting Skaggi to be at ease.

"And what about us?" asked a harsh, irritated old woman. Her grey hair was in a tight bun, and her thin frame supported a worn lilac dress that was fashionable three seasons ago. "You insult us, Jarl Igmund. The Forsworn killed my husband, killed my son. They burnt my land and took my home, and yet you do nothing? No, I rot away in this keep of yours for over a year, surviving on your pity, but that never extends far enough for you to take back my home. Instead, you set your sights on some sprawling camp. Is my home, my legacy worth nothing in the eyes of the Jarl of Markarth?"

"Lady Sungard, the attack on your home was a great tragedy for the whole Reach. We saw one of our most powerful families fall to barbarians, and with it one of our largest fortresses. That is why I am unable to help you yet. Here we are planning an attack on an open camp, a heavily defended one yes, but only with wooden stakes and men. To take back Fort Sungard would be an impossible task without the full armies of The Reach," said Jarl Igmund, trying to sound as sympathetic as possible.

"And the full armies of The Reach are busy fighting Ulfric Stormcloak, a worthy cause, but the wounds of the Forsworn attack still cut deep." Lady Sungard's eyes glistened with moisture. "I have no love for Ulfric or his Stormcloaks, but I cannot sympathise with a war hundreds of miles away when too many are ignoring the war here at home. I do not blame you, Jarl Igmund, for the loss of Fort Sungard. It was my family's own blindness that lost us our home, but there is yet more blindness in attacking a lone campsite when the Forsworn control some of the strongest forts in The Reach. You will have no help from me, my few guards left remain my own."

Jarl Igmund turned away from Lady Sungard. "Old Hroldan is near Karthspire, Lady Eydis, as is your mine, Lord Soljund. What experience do you have with these Forsworn?"

"Small raids as normal," said Eydis, a tough Nord woman. "In fact, the attacks seem to be easing off. I don't like it."

"I would have thought less Forsworn attacks would be welcome," said Thongvor.

"No, there are more Forsworn than ever. We can see the lights at night. The camp seems to grow larger every day and yet they leave us alone," said Lord Soljund, weary leather armour wrapping his young body. As one of the youngest nobles he had yet to garner respect amongst the others. "That means they're gathering their strength. They're planning something big. I can't speak for Old Hroldan, but my men are with you, as getting rid of these Forsworn from my doorstep would be very welcome."

"Aye, Old Hroldan stands with the Jarl and the Silver-bloods," said Lady Eydis. Neither she nor Lord Soljund had large armies, but Jarl Igmund was relieved to have some support.

"Thank you. Go, now, all of you. I must prepare for what is to come."

* * *

The halls of Nchuand-Zel were tall and dark. Pillars held aloft ceilings of unseen heights. Staubin winced at the clanging and shuffling of his team. They had no idea what to expect in the submerged Dwemer palace, but it would be wise to be more cautious. Relics of past excavations could be seen at the edges of the torchlight, including heaps of metal and dusty skeletons. Stone steps led upwards to solid rock walls on either side of the main chamber, and thus Staubin was at least satisfied that they were going the right way, if the only way. Talk was short and to the point along the tunnel as the ominous darkness and depth of the chamber hushed everyone. Scholars skittered across the stone floor to examine this and that worthless artefact or carving. Staubin knew that anything this early on in Nchuand-Zel was the scrap others had left behind. He retained his place dutifully at the head of the excavation, with the dozen Imperial guards surrounding the rest.

It wasn't long before torchlight shone on the end of the chamber. A solid granite wall loomed above them, blocking what once may have been a throne room. For a moment Staubin considered ordering the workers to dig through but decided it was a waste of labour. There had to be something they weren't seeing.

"Captain Alethius," called Staubin, summoning his captain of the guard. He hated how his voice boomed and echoed round the chamber. "Send your men out. We must have passed a side chamber along the way. Tell them to report to me when they've found something."

"Yes sir," said Alethius, dutifully stamping his armoured foot on the ground. The sound made those not paying attention to the conversation wince.

Perhaps an hour had passed before a young soldier ran up to Staubin. His blonde hair was matted with sweat. "Wizard Staubin, sir, we may have found the way forward. One of the staircases leads to a narrow passage, but I could glimpse a larger hall at the end of it."

"Very good, soldier," said Staubin with a relieved sigh.

"Sir, another thing. There were spider webs," said the soldier a little nervously.

"So? I don't care if you're afraid of spiders, boy."

"I don't think your understand, sir-"

"You dare question the intelligence and reasoning of one of the Synod's foremost researchers? There are spider webs, and thus there are spiders. I understand perfectly well soldier, and despite the looming fear of creepy crawlies we shall venture forth regardless. Am I clear?" Staubin was starting to become disillusioned with the might of the Imperial Legion.

"Yes, sir," said the soldier, yet doubt and fear still clung to him.

The research team shuffled their way to the narrow opening in the rock. It appeared natural, unlike the grand architecture of the city. White webbing clung to the walls and spilled out of the tunnel like foam from a monster's mouth. There was silence as Staubin and Alethius stood at the head of the pack, just under the shadow of the tunnel.

"We don't know what's beyond, sir," said Alethius, raising his torch to shine more light into the darkness. The orange flame glittered off the sticky webbing.

"We don't know what to expect in any part of this city, captain, that's why we're here," said Staubin angrily.

"Do you see that in the darkness?" asked Alethius suddenly. At the far reaches of his torchlight glittered green gems, hundreds of them. They waved and danced, flashed yellow then back to green, disappeared and reappeared somewhere else. It looked like the twinkling of gentle stars.

"Perhaps valuables of the Dwemer," exclaimed Staubin excitedly, taking a step forward. Alethius grabbed him by the arm and pulled him backwards. Still holding on to Staubin, he slowly bent down and picked up a piece of scrap metal. In a deft movement he tossed it into the tunnel, and a dull clang echoed back. The lights vanished.

"I don't understand," said Staubin with a furrowed brow. At those words, the mouth of the monster spewed out the contents of its stomach. With a high shriek and the clatter of chitin on stone, spiders of all sizes poured from the tunnel, along the floor, walls and ceiling and spread into the chamber. Some were the size of cats, others the size of cattle. The lights they had seen in the tunnel had not been gems, but beady, greedy eyes.

At once, Staubin's faith in the Legion was restored. Acting as one organism, every soldier drew their swords and charged at the beasts. Steel swords sliced through spindly limbs, and black pincers bit at leather armour. Swords bounced off hard, black bodies only to cut into the soft flesh between eyes and limbs. The workers squealed and scattered as more and more spiders poured from the tunnel, their dark mouths dripping with venom. The shrieks of the insects filled the tunnels as scores of them were cut down.

Staubin gasped as a spider locked its eight glowing eyes on him. Its legs twitched and its body shook, and from its mouth a jet of sticky grey poison leapt towards him. In a second, Staubin was lying on the ground. The grey poison shot over his head and hit an unaware soldier in the neck. The effect was instant. Armour and flesh started to bubble and melt as the corrosive spit penetrated every layer. The soldier screamed in agony and fell to the ground, desperately trying to get the poison off of him but only succeeded in scorching his hands. He was finished off by a huge spider pouncing and sinking its pincers into his neck.

The spider was not done with Staubin. As the mage leapt to his feet, the spider pounced with legs splayed and mouth open. A jet of flame erupted from Staubin's hands, roaring through the dark cavern. It hit the spider, halting it in its tracks. The insect fell to the ground shrieking in pain. Its blood bubbled and its limbs shrivelled until all that remained was a charred husk.

Other mages in the cavern began to follow Staubin's example. Rings of fire licked the ground around them before shooting upwards in a great inferno. The cavern was lit by the orange glow of the four swirling fires. As if by a powerful wind, the rings began to spin. The flames grew hotter and taller until black smoke and orange light filled the cavern. The spiders shivered away from the heat and light, and one by one they skittered back into the tunnel, some having to squeeze their gigantic bodies through the narrow hole.

"Good work men," said Staubin, allowing his fire to fizzle out into smoke. "Captain, damage report."

"Two soldiers and a worker dead, sir," said Alethius, wiping blood and ash from his armour.

"I have seen worse starts to expeditions," said Staubin, gathering with the other three mages. All looked drained from the magical exertion.

"What shall we do with the bodies, sir?" asked Alethius, bending over a dead soilder. His armour and chest had been slashed apart by pincers.

"Leave them behind. We don't have time to go back to Markarth, and we can't carry them with us."

"That seems disrespectful, sir," said Alethius, standing to face the mage.

"We can collect them on our return journey. For now, we must push on. Those spiders won't give us any more trouble," said Staubin. He picked up his robes and wandered over to the tunnel. "Follow me."

* * *

The Residential and Business districts were much more pleasant than the Industrial District. Alleys and stone staircases led into caves and up cliff sides where people lived in ancient Dwemer houses. Statues and plants adorned doorways and walkways, and the Palace River poured its away alongside the road that led from the gate to Understone Keep. The city towered above Aicantar as he walked the lower level. Stone bridges crisscrossed above him, with people bustling about their business on every level.

The marketplace occupied one of the few open spaces in the cramped city. The golden gate to the city opened into a cobbled square where vendors of every description screamed their wares. Men and women in flamboyantly garish outfits fought to sell the crowds anything from meat to jewellery to weapons to mining equipment to books. Markarth lived and breathed by the marketplace and the mines, and the vibrant stalls tied together with bunting gave food and shelter to most residents of the city.

Aicantar pushed through crowds of every class, from nobles to beggars. He had a single destination in mind. A small stall decorated in fine jewellery was perched just on the river's edge. Its blue canvas roof fluttered in the light breeze, and the lady behind the stall smiled as she saw Aicantar.

"Aicantar, it's lovely to see you today."

"Likewise, Kerah," said Aicantar, comfortably sitting in a chair behind the stall. "How is business?"

"My husband and daughter are busy at home making more silver jewellery, but it's simply not selling," she said with a sigh. She brushed her charcoal hair away from her wrinkled brown face. Dark eyes shone like the gems she sold.

Aicantar reached up and grabbed a necklace made of silver links. Dark sapphires hung at the bottom, detailed in silver thread. "I don't understand. It's beautiful work," he said, carefully putting the necklace back.

"They are beautiful. Endon is very skilled in his work, and Adara is growing up to be a fine smith, but it's the same beauty that everyone in Markarth has seen every day. With so few travellers in the city, people have got bored of silver," she said. "When Lord Kolskeggr still had his mine, scraps of gold would sometimes fall into our hands. My husband could then make the most glorious adornments you've ever seen." She absentmindedly leant on the countertop.

"Then the Forsworn came," said Aicantar mournfully.

"Then the Forsworn came. Lord Kolskeggr lost his mine, and we lost our gold. What few pieces we had were snapped up instantly, and now business is stagnating."

"You're still one of the wealthier families in the city," said Aicantar.

"Oh Aicantar, I don't mean to compare my problems to the poor of the city. We still have a roof over our head and food on the table, and for that I thank The Eight every day. I just wish people would appreciate my family's work," said Kerah with a gentle smile.

"I may not be able to help with that, but I can give you something new to sell," said Aicantar, pulling out his satchel. Kerah stood up from the counter and frowned in curiosity. Aicantar pulled out a chunky bracelet, woven in bronze and brass. "This belonged to the Dwemer. The stone is missing, but a good-sized ruby would look perfect."

"How did you get this?" asked Kerah, hurriedly shoving the bracelet under the counter.

"My uncle," said Aicantar simply.

"It's perfect, Aicantar," Kerah said, leaning down to give him a soft kiss on the cheek. "How much for it?"

"300 gold and one of those pretty silver rings," said Aicantar, a sly smirk appearing on his face. Kerah was a warrior of bartering, and this part he always enjoyed.

"200 and a hot dinner," said Kerah, folding her arms.

"I dine in the Keep, Kerah. 280 and the ring."

"220 and a 10% discount on all non-gemmed items."

"250, the ring and the discount."

"You insult me, Aicantar."

"Fine. 250 and a 20% discount."

"Done," said Kerah. She hastily counted shining coins into a small purse and dropped it into Aicantar's satchel. "You know that once I put a ruby in that bracelet I can sell it on for 3000 gold, right?"

"I don't have a ruby, Kerah, nor the ability to convince rich people to hand over thousands of gold, and so I think that's the best deal I could get." Aicantar had stood up to leave when a woman approached the stall. Her bright red hair shone in the sun, and fur and gems shimmered on her body.

"Margret, it's a pleasure to see you again," said Kerah with a bright smile.

"Hello, Kerah, has Endon completed my order?" He voice was plummy and sweet. It spoke of wealth and nobility.

"He certainly did. It was for your sister, you said?" Kerah said, pulling a red velvet cushion from underneath the counter. An intricate silver ring was embedded in it, adorned with a glittering diamond.

"Yes. This is beautiful work, your husband should be proud," she said and picked up the small trinket with delicate fingers.

Then it happened. Aicantar felt a change come over the marketplace almost instantly. Dread and tension filled the air. A knife slid out of a shirt. A gloved hand reached for Margret's neck. A dark hand got there first. Kerah grabbed Margret by her fur collar and hoisted her over the counter with strong arms. Jewellery and boxes clattered to the ground as Margret crashed through the stall. A dark and dirty Breton stood on the other side, a steel dagger pointing at the trio.

"The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!" he shouted as he tried to jump after the Imperial noble. As the man landed on the counter, Aicantar leapt up with lightning at his fingertips. With a flick of his fingers, the man was sent flying backwards, blue electricity crackling across his body. He convulsed on the floor for several moments before going still, softly smoking.

"He tried to kill me," shrieked Margret, her screams filling the square. Tears ran down her soft face.

She had not been the only victim. The scene had replayed itself across the marketplace, and Margret was only one of six victims. She was the only one to have survived. The guards quickly cut down the assailants, and blood ran between the cobbles. Chaos erupted across the city as people trampled each other to get to safety, away from the death and violence.

Within minutes the previously bustling square was empty. People could be heard running down the streets, screaming of a Forsworn attack. The guards began to examine the eleven dead, and Aicantar gingerly stepped out from behind the counter. Margret and Kerah were sat on the floor, the Imperial noble quietly sobbing into Kerah's arms. Aicantar knelt by his smoking victim. He wore the uniform of a smelter and looked like any of the city's poor. He stood up and walked to the centre of the square, choking down vomit. He had never seen so much death, and his eyes watered with repugnance. His body shook and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. He felt like he was going to faint, but morbid fascination kept him walking. He stood in the centre of the square, staring at each of the dead. Blood trickled down the cobbles and pooled around his boots. He stared at the unseeing open eyes of the attackers and the victims. Terror had come to Markarth. Aicantar collapsed to the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hey guys! So this is chapter 2. It's more of a slow-burner than I had anticipated, but as you're about to see a lot of juicy stuff unfolds here. I hope you enjoy it, and as ever please review - it would make me unimaginably happy to hear any and all of your thoughts.**

* * *

Aicantar blinked open crusted and blurry eyes. His face and body felt hot and sticky, and the taste of vomit lingered in his mouth. Sunlight struck his eyes, blinding him from his surroundings.

"Aicantar, don't try to move so much," said a voice to his left, a voice he knew. He rolled over, his vision becoming clearer. His mind came back to him in a flash. He shot upright, smacked his head on a beam and fell back down. "I told you," said the voice again.

"Ghorza," said Aicantar, rubbing his head. It hurt like hell. "How did I get up here?"

"Kerah dragged you here," said Ghorza simply. Aicantar looked around the room he had found himself in. He was laid out on a thick table by the forge, the heat from the fire causing his body to sweat uncontrollably.

"Ghorza, how do you stand this heat all day?" Aicantar asked, sliding his body gently off the table. He spied his robes neatly folded on a chair and noticed he was clothed only in a pair of tan trousers.

"Orcs are made of stronger stuff than Elves," laughed the Ghorza. "No Orc would have fainted at the sight of a few dead bodies."

"It was horrible, Ghorza. They came out of nowhere and attacked without reason. I... didn't think something like this could happen. I didn't think the Forsworn could get into the city."

"This is what happens during war, Aicantar, my time in the Legion taught me that, but you should speak no more of the attack," the Orc said, taking a seat at the edge of the table. "The attack never happened."

"What are you talking about?" Aicantar asked.

"The Jarl and guards have denied any such attack taking place. To say otherwise is a criminal offence. There are no Forsworn in Markarth."

"That's madness!" shouted Aicantar, anger bubbling up inside of him. "I killed one of them, Ghorza, I saw the others dead. I saw the ones they'd killed."

Ghorza grabbed hold of Aicantar's wrist and dragged him towards her. "I like you, Elf, so I will give you this warning. If you know what's good for you, you won't talk about this ever happening. You won't even think about it. The Jarl says there are no Forsworn in Markarth, and so we all must believe it to be true."

Aicantar looked fearfully into Ghorza's deep brown eyes. He was confused and hurt, but the glint in her eyes told him all he needed to know. Ghorza released her grip and stood up. Picking up a hammer, she returned to her forge.

"Stay here a while until you're ready to leave. Return those clothes to Tacitus when you can."

"He looked after me?" asked Aicantar, reaching for a flagon of wine he'd just spotted.

"It was disappointing. He was so gentle. Those hands were never meant to work a forge," said Ghorza with a grunt.

"Remind me to thank him," said Aicantar. A small frown creased his face as he sipped the wine.

* * *

The smell of wet dog and sickly incense assaulted Ondolemar as he threw open the doors to the Great Hall. Timid bows and curtsies followed him across the room from servants and the less important courtiers. Distasteful stares came from the braver members of the room. He was flanked by two golden soldiers of the Aldmeri Dominion, expressionless and marching in rigid step. Ondolemar strode with confidence up the steep stone steps towards the Mournful Throne. Midnight blue robes embroidered with gold lightning bolts flapped around him.

"State your business, Elf," said a tall Redguard woman clad in steel. Her hand clutched the pommel of her sword.

"To answer the summons of Igmund," Ondolemar said dryly.

"Let him through, Faleen," said Jarl Igmund, lounging on the throne behind his housecarl.

"So much aggression in this city, Igmund." said Ondolemar, gliding up a few more stone steps. Faleen drew the first few inches of her sword, forcing the tall Elf to halt. "No wonder the Forsworn have declared war on Markarth if even your honoured guests are threatened. I hear rumours of them in the city itself."

"Lies and fearmongering," Jarl Igmund growled. "No Forsworn has stepped foot in Markarth for twenty-five years."

"Of course, Igmund, the guards of Markarth are forever infallible," said Ondolemar with a grin.

"Don't mock me, Ondolemar, you will trust in my ability to hold this city, and by The Eight you will address me by my title." Jarl Igmund was forever frustrated with the Elf.

"I, too, have a title. Once you learn it and address me by it then you shall hear _Jarl_ Igmund come from my lips," said Ondolemar with crossed arms. He was beginning to get bored. His two golden guards stood motionless at his side. "Why have you summoned me, Igmund?"

Jarl Igmund breathed in deeply to contain himself. "In a day's time, Thongvor Silver-Blood will be leading an assault on Karthspire, one of the largest Forsworn bases."

"Very good, I will enjoy hearing of the slaughter of those barbarians," said Ondolemar.

"I would like you to go with him."

Ondolemar's face contorted with laughter. He tilted his head back, and the sound of his mirth echoed throughout the keep. Jarl Igmund was unnerved by the sound as no one had ever heard the Elf laugh. Ondolemar managed to eventually calm himself. "Igmund, why in Oblivion would I do that? The Thalmor have absolutely no business with the Forsworn, regardless of the fact that you have a Court Wizard which you should be asking this of."

"While Court Wizard Calcelmo is a valuable addition to the court in Markarth, he is far from a battle mage. The Forsworn have a magical advantage over us, and we need to limit their power as much as possible," said Jarl Igmund, tapping his foot agitatedly. "I am anxious to see this attack succeed, and thus I need your help."

"I can only imagine how painful that was to say," said Ondolemar. He enjoyed watching Jarl Igmund squirm.

"As far as I'm aware there are only three mages in the city; Court Wizard Calcelmo, who would not be valuable in a fight; his nephew, Aicantar, a young lad who has not proved himself, and you. You are a powerful mage of the Aldmeri Dominion, trained for battle," said Jarl Igmund.

"Not that I'm considering going into battle against the Forsworn, but I shall humour this conversation for my own curiosity. Why should I do this for you?" Ondolemar asked.

"I read your reports. You've lost more than a few good agents to Forsworn attacks. Your power in The Reach can only increase after one of their largest bases is destroyed."

"Any _good_ agent of mine would not be defeated by wild barbarians. If anything the Forsworn are helping me weed out the weak amongst us." Ondolemar took pleasure in seeing Jarl Igmund's deep frown. "If you don't have a decent offer for the Thalmor or myself then there was no point in you summoning me here." Ondolemar turned to leave and placed a foot on a lower step.

"Wait, there's something else."

Ondolemar smiled with his back to Jarl Igmund. He always got his way. He turned around with eyebrows raised in question.

"I will give you the Shrine of Talos," Jarl Igmund said with a hint of despair.

"After all this time you'll finally relinquish it to me? You need my abilities that badly?" Ondolemar was mildly surprised at the bold offer. He was rarely surprised.

"Yes," said Jarl Igmund, his face hardening.

"I can do as I please with it? I can destroy the statues? Kill or imprison any worshippers?"

"There are no Talos worshippers in the city, but yes."

"Someone has been tending to it. There's constantly lit candles and no dust. Igmund, to be clear, I may cleanse the entire building with fire?"

"Yes. By my right as Jarl I grant you custody of the Shrine of Talos to do with as you please if you fight alongside my men to destroy the Forsworn." Jarl Igmund sat forward in the Mournful Throne, staring down at Ondolemar.

"I accept, Igmund. My agents and I are at your disposal."

* * *

Understone Keep was alive with the sound of feasting. Every level of the fire-lit room was full of stone and wooden tables packed with nobles and soldiers. Kegs lined the edges of the room, and servants were busy flooding the room with drink. Three spit fires dominated the Great Hall, and hunks of hog, goat and ox filled hundreds of plates. The night before the battle had arrived, and in Skyrim battle always came after a feast.

Jarl Igmund occupied the centre of the high table in a stone chair laid with velvet cushions. The banner of Markarth was draped behind him, two copper ram horns entwined in a knot on a green background. Thongvor Silver-blood was seated to his right, deep in his drink and reaching for another glass of wine. There was very little conversation between the two men.

Aicantar skirted around the edge of the Great Hall, avoiding the large tables filled with Nord soldiers. Mead frothed from their mouths as they roared in laughter at lewd jokes. Beard and body hair was matted with sweat, drink and food grease, and Aicantar did not intend to be around such barbarianism for long. He never felt comfortable at such events. Understone Keep was his home, but he was forever reminded that Markarth was for the Nords, and an Elf did not belong there. What he needed was some wine, but the lower levels only flowed with beer, ale and mead. He looked longingly at the high table where glasses of red nectar were never empty, but he was less welcome up there than down where he was. While his uncle maintained a permanent position at the far end of the high table, the Court Wizard's nephew was of little importance, and that's how it had always been. He dejectedly grabbed a mug of mead from a serving table and perched himself on a sticky bench. The few Nords at the table shuffled away from him with disdainful looks. He sat hunched over the table, taking sips of the sweet drink while staring at the high table. Jarl Igmund and Thongvor Silver-blood seemed to have struck up an uneasy conversation. Aicantar avoided both those men as much as he could. The court fascinated him, but powerful Nord men rarely gave much time to a young Elf.

To Jarl Igmund's right sat Legate Emmanuel Admand who was deep in conversation with Lady Sungard. Legate Emmanuel had an untouched mug of beer, and Lady Sungard sipped delicately at an amber spirit in a crystal glass. She was another permanent face on the high table, as her family's history and power gained her a constant position of honour. She may have lost her lands and riches, but she still demanded respect.

The final members were representatives of Jarl Igmund's court. His housecarl, Faleen, sat in full steel armour, a sword and bow resting upon her chair. Her smooth dark skin glowed in the firelight, and Aicantar marvelled at the delicate beauty of such a strong warrior. More than once had Jarl Igmund been attacked by would-be assassins. None of them had every got passed his strong Redguard housecarl.

The final member of the table was Jarl Igmund's uncle and steward, Raerek. He sat silently in yellow finery, bedazzled with rubies, emeralds and a brown fur collar. He was not a warrior like his nephew, but he was an effective politician fond of fine things.

"I go to war tomorrow," said Tacitus, taking a seat next to Aicantar. He'd brought with him two mugs of mead.

"You're a Silver-Blood soldier?" asked Aicantar, startled at the Imperial's sudden appearance.

"By The Eight, no!" exclaimed Tacitus with a laugh. "No self-respecting Imperial would throw their lot in with the Silver-Bloods." He took a long swig of mead. "Jarl Igmund has chosen Ghorza to be the army's quartermaster, and I'm to accompany her. There's not much chance of me seeing any fighting."

"Have you ever seen death?" asked Aicantar suddenly.

"No. Bloody awful injuries, sure, but I've never seen anyone die," said Tacitus with a frown.

"It's horrible."

"The attack-"

"Shush, it's not to be spoken of," said Aicantar quickly. "But yes," he said in a whisper.

"You looked like death yourself afterwards. You were feverish and shaking. It was really that bad?"

"I could never have imagined… listen, thank you for taking care of me, it was very kind of you," said Aicantar, breaking the sombre mood with a smile.

Tacitus shook his head. Aicantar noticed how the fire glinted off his blue eyes. "You were dragged into the forge by the silversmith's wife. I couldn't have just left you on the floor."

"Still, you didn't need to clothe and care for me. Such kindness is not common in this city." Both men stared at each other, bashful smiles on their face. Aicantar noticed something different about Tacitus. "You look… clean."

Tacitus laughed once more and looked down at himself. "I couldn't very well come to a feast in Understone Keep covered in the dirt from the forge." His face had been scrubbed clean, revealing tanned skin and sharp stubble. His mop of blonde hair had been tidied and pushed back, and an open shirt had replaced his apron. His dimples and strong jaw remained forever present, as did his thick arms.

"I wish some of these Nords would bother to clean themselves too," said Aicantar, casting his eyes at the rabble.

"They wouldn't be true Nords if they did," said Tacitus, finishing his mug of mead. "I met a few Nords in Cyrodiil, but they were much more civilised."

Aicantar looked up as a shadow was cast over them. He jumped up in surprise and bowed deeply. Tacitus hesitantly stood up, although he had no idea why.

"Even Cyrodiil is barbaric compared to Alinor," said Ondolemar.

"Emissary Ondolemar, it's an honour," said Aicantar, straightening himself.

"Finally, someone in Markarth manages to spit out some manners. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Aicantar, Court Wizard Calcelmo's nephew?" Ondolemar took a seat across the table from them and produced a carafe of wine. Tacitus and Aicantar hesitantly resumed their seats.

"Yes, Emissary, but the pleasure is mine," said Aicantar. Ondolemar poured two glasses from the carafe and pushed one towards Aicantar with the tips of delicate fingers.

"Excuse me, my lord, but are you an Emissary of the Dominion?" asked Tacitus with unbridled curiosity.

"Ondolemar, Second Emissary of the Aldmeri Dominion to Skyrim, Commander of the Twelfth Battalion, Graduate Wizard of Linnoitus and Junior Councilman of the Thalmor. You should be humbled," he finished dryly.

Tacitus sat looking like a blubbering fish for a moment before Aicantar pinched his leg under the table.

"My lord, I am both humbled and honoured," sat Tacitus with a bow of his head.

"Better, but a common boy of Markarth should not simply be honoured. He should be in awe, filled with terror and amazement at my very presence, but not to worry." Ondolemar leaned forward. "You will be." He leaned back and settled into a more comfortable position again. "I'm not here for titles and chit-chat. Aicantar, I have something to discuss with you."

* * *

Legate Emmanuel sighed as he looked over the throng of Nord soldiers filling Understone Keep. The Legion had held a presence in Markarth since the days of Tiber Septim, and he did not like entertaining the thought of it all coming to an end. Reports came in from the frontlines every week, and it wasn't always good news. In a recent letter, General Tullius himself had disclosed sensitive information to Legate Emmanuel, demanding action.

"Legate, it has been very pleasant speaking with you about the war efforts, but I'm afraid I don't know what you want from me," said Lady Sungard with all etiquette.

"I simply want your support for the Legion, my lady," said Legate Emmanuel.

"And you have it, but I'm afraid I can offer nothing but my own personal views in the war. I have no land. I have no men. If you are looking for more power in The Reach then I'm afraid your time is best spent elsewhere," said Lady Sungard. Her crow's feet grew as she squinted at Legate Emmanuel questioningly. Her thin lips sipped at her brandy.

Legate Emmanuel sighed once more. "Lady Sungard, would you care to humour me and join me in the war room?"

"I was asked that many times as a younger woman, but I never expected it in my old age." She gave Legate Emmanuel a cruel grin.

"I never – I mean to say…"

"I'm being mean, Legate. Yes, I shall join you. No one else seems to want to speak to me anyway."

Welcome peace greeted Legate Emmanuel and Lady Sungard in the war room. The thunder of feasting was replaced by the low crackling of a warm fire and the distant hum of Dwemer pipes. The stone table and chairs sat quiet and neat, and the pair silently took their places; Legate Emmanuel at the head of the table with Lady Sungard to his left. Two aged maps curled delicately on the stone. One was a detailed display of The Reach and the other was of the grand Province of Skyrim.

"What do you see, Lady Sungard?" asked Legate Emmanuel.

"Two maps, Legate."

"Indeed, but they are so much more. Look at Skyrim. On this map, it appears so ordered and peaceful. The towns and fortresses have their place, the cities take charge of their holds with uncontested borders," said Legate Emmanuel. His hand stroked the border of Whiterun and The Pale.

"But it is a crucible of blood and flame. Nothing is certain. Many of those towns are nothing but ash and rubble, and those borders change daily depending on who spilt more blood," said Lady Sungard with a hint of pain.

"Now look at The Reach. Tell me what you see."

"Much the same," said Lady Sungard softly. "The Reach is dying like the rest of Skyrim."

"The Legion wants to change that."

"The Legion has spilt just as much blood as the Stormcloaks, destroyed just as many homes," said Lady Sungard, looking up from the map to Legate Emmanuel.

"Countless more will die if we lose this war. If the Empire becomes any weaker… no, that's not my point here. You and I have both seen countless war maps. Even they seem so neat. Imperial land is dusted in red, and Stormcloak land in blue, but it is never that simple. Jarls with small holds or a strong grip have convinced all their Banners and Thanes to fight for their chosen side, but The Reach is not small, and Jarl Igmund doesn't have much of a grip at all. The Reach is a patchwork of politics, and to paint the hold as on the side of The Empire is a gross lie," Legate Emmanuel had been frustrated with his job for many months, but he had very important work to do.

"Jarl Igmund supports The Empire, as do I and many other houses," said Lady Sungard.

"But many don't. The Silver-Bloods want Ulfric as High King, and many families in The Reach may as well be _their_ Banners, not Jarl Igmund's. In Haafingar or Hjaalmarch, the refusal to support The Empire or their Jarl would be treason, and any defiant family would pay for the crime. Jarl Igmund is not powerful enough to dictate such punishment on the Silver-Bloods and their allies, but we can help him."

"How so, Legate?" asked Lady Sungard hopefully. She remembered clearly the joy the Silver-Bloods felt at her family's fall from grace, and she had no wish to see them gain more power.

"I want to retake Fort Sungard," said Legate Emmanuel. He sat up straight in his chair and stared Lady Sungard in her pale blue eyes. Her mouth parted in disbelief. Her wrinkled upper lip twitched slightly.

"You sit here with your poetic talk of maps and war, and this was your plan? I always thought you a straightforward man," said Lady Sungard. The shock of Legate Emmanuel's proposal was still fresh.

Legate Emmanuel's face contorted into a confused frown. "There are many perceptions of me in this court. I am a brainless tin soldier, I'm an imposing leader, I am a Breton imposter. Not once, however, has anyone thought of me as poetic." He shook himself from his thoughts. "Lady Sungard, the Imperial Legion want to give you back your home."

Lady Sungard's years of politicking and ruling came back to her. Her eyes creased with suspicion. "And in return?"

"In return, you will allow us to garrison Fort Sungard with Imperial soldiers, that is all," said Legate Emmanuel.

Lady Sungard once more turned her eyes to the map of Skyrim. Fort Sungard stood proud on a mountain, guarding the point where Whiterun and Falkreath met The Reach. "What's coming, Legate? Fort Sungard has been ripe for the taking for well over a year, and in that time The Legion has been content to ignore the powerful position of Fort Sungard. What is scaring The Legion so much that it now grasps for any stronghold it can?"

"You're a clever woman, Lady Sungard, but I cannot divulge Legion secrets. The offer is there as it stands; let The Legion slaughter the barbaric Forsworn who have taken your home, and in return you shall house The Legion as your guests. Yes, your home will become a prominent war base, but it will be _your home_ again."

* * *

"Emissary Ondolemar, I have never fought in a battle before," said Aicantar, shocked. "I'm not trained for such things as war."

"Aicantar, this is a delicate situation as I've explained. The Forsworn are fearsome, and even a Thalmor mage such as myself might have some trouble. I can only conscript a couple of my agents, but even then we're likely to be wildly outnumbered. I need every willing mage at my side," said Ondolemar. He drained the dregs of his wine. He didn't enjoy asking for Aicantar's help, but if Igmund could stomach grovelling to the Thalmor, then Ondolemar could speak to a young Elven mage.

"Emissary Ondolemar, I still don't think I should," Aicantar said nervously. The thought of more death made his skin go cold. He cast a worried look at Tacitus who remained unhelpfully silent.

"How many times have you left this city?" asked Ondolemar.

"Only once, as a young boy."

"In Alinor, you would have already travelled the length and breadth of The Dominion. Adventure would have awaited around every corner. No Altmer should be wasting away in a cold Nord city such as this. This is the adventure you must crave," said Ondolemar with a gentle smile. It was forced, but Aicantar did not see that.

"My uncle wouldn't even notice me gone," said Aicantar quietly.

"Then you have nothing holding you back. You would have the favour of the Thalmor, you would proudly serve your Jarl and Hold and you would feel the glory of battle." Ondolemar saw the still unsure look on Aicantar's face. He extended his charade of care and placed a warm hand on Aicantar's. With brows raised in understanding, he said. "We will be at the back of the army, and I shall allow no harm to befall either of us."

Aicantar's hand tingled at the warm touch. His mind was made up. With a weak smile, he looked at Tacitus who nodded and then back at Ondolemar. "Very well. To war."

* * *

Jarl Igmund burst into the war room. His face was red with fury. "Legate, you better tell me this is a sick joke," he raged.

"Jarl Igmund, calm yourself and explain!" said Legate Emmanuel with intense authority.

"You are the one who will explain themselves, Imperial snake," Jarl Igmund said rushing towards Legate Emmanuel. Lady Sungard grabbed the Breton's wrist in fear. Calcelmo, Faleen and the bejewelled Raerek had followed Jarl Igmund into the room. Each of them held a look of concern and fear. Jarl Igmund slammed a scroll onto the table in front of the Legate. "Read this. Read it for everyone to hear."

"I know what the scroll says," said Legate Emmanuel, admitting defeat. "Do you trust everyone in this room to know this information?"

Jarl Igmund glanced at the familiar faces, each desperate to know the cause for the chaos. "Do it."

With a deep sigh, Legate Emmanuel removed his steel gauntlets and unfurled the scroll.

" _Igmund, Jarl of Markarth and The Reach, Marquess of the West and Imperial Protector._

 _It is with solemn duty that I report the terms of the truce between the Imperial Legion and the Stormcloaks. In honouring the terms that are described forthwith, the Civil War which has torn Skyrim apart will be put on hold so that the Dragonborn may undertake his sacred duty in defeating Alduin the World-Eater. He is in need of peace so that the City of Whiterun may not be threatened as he fulfils his plan to capture a live dragon. To achieve peace, the following terms were agreed and must be upheld:_

 _The City of Markarth and the Hold of The Reach shall no longer be under Imperial control. You shall step down as Jarl and take a place in the Court of Solitude as Jarl Elisif the Fair's honoured guest. Thongvor Silver-Blood is hereby named Jarl of Markarth and The Reach, and the Stormcloak's control over the hold shall be absolute._

 _The City of Riften and the Hold of The Rift shall no longer be under Stormcloak control. Laila Law-Giver shall step down as Jarl and take a place in the Court of Windhelm as Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak's honoured guest. Maven Black-Briar is hereby named Jarl of Riften and The Rift, and the Imperial Legion's control over the hold shall be absolute._

 _Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak shall pay reparations for the massacre at Karthwasten, both for the lives lost and the homes destroyed. All payment will be made to Ainethach, Thane of Karthwasten._

 _General Tullius of the Fourth Legion of the Imperial Empire."_

Silence pierced the room once more as betrayal and anger sunk into the spirits of those present. Sorrow grew heavy on the face of Legate Emmanuel.

"Jarl Igmund, this was not my decision. I do not wish to see you removed from Markarth," said the grizzled soldier.

"And yet you hid this from me as General Tullis plots to put the snake Thongvor Silver-Blood on my throne. I will not have it!" he roared as he swept round, staring at everyone in the room. "Do you hear me? Markarth is my home, and no Imperial will take it from me." Wild rage coursed through Jarl Igmund's veins. He was a cornered animal.

"Jarl Igmund, please think carefully. This truce is for peace so that the dragon threat can be dealt with," implored Legate Emmanuel.

"Dragon threat? You think I give a shit about dragons?" said Jarl Igmund, slamming his palms on the table and thrusting his face towards the legate. "The dragons live in the hills and feast on the corpses of burnt Forsworn, and thus they a friend of Markarth's like the bears and wolves."

"But if a dragon were to attack the city-"

"Then we would be safe in houses made of stone. No fire can burn us and no claws can reach us." Jarl Igmund stood and addressed the room. "Anyone who thinks I will willingly hand over the Mournful Throne to the damned Silver-Bloods is an incompetent fool who is not worthy of Markarth. Anyone who disagrees with my decision will be exiled from the city."

Lady Sungard stood slowly from her seat, hands clutched with nerves. "Jarl Igmund, no one here _wants_ to see Thongvor Silver-Blood as Jarl of Markarth, but to turn against the Imperials in defiance? You can't fight the entire Legion by yourself."

"Lady Sungard, you know this pain better than anyone. No one else here knows what it feels like to lose their home. Do you wish such a thing upon me?" Jarl Igmund said.

"Never."

"And what lengths would you go to take back Fort Sungard?"

"There is nothing I would not do," said Lady Sungard stoically, casting a glance at Legate Emmanuel.

"Then I hope I have an ally in you," said Jarl Igmund approaching her.

"By The Eight, Jarl Igmund, you make this difficult, but yes, you have my support. I will not, however, turn my back on The Legion, but I would rather die than help the Silver-Bloods."

Jarl Igmund bowed his approval and slowly turned to face Legate Emmanuel. "I do not want to fight The Legion."

"Then _step down_. You are playing a very dangerous game, and it's going to get you killed," said the legate.

"You know I can't do that. You know General Tullius is a fool to ask that of me." Without thinking, Legate Emmanuel found himself nodding. "I have a question for you, Legate, do you want to see me die?" said Jarl Igmund.

Confusion spread across Legate Emmanuel's face. "No, I do not, Jarl Igmund."

"Then you will not whisper a word of this to Thongvor Silver-Blood." He once again turned to address the room. "If the Silver-Bloods knew of any of this then my head would already be severed from my body. At dawn, Thongvor Silver-Blood and his army will no longer be in the city. Keep your mouths shut and we might yet survive the night."

"Jarl Igmund, I cannot help you in this plot. It defies my orders, it defies the peace!" exclaimed Legate Emmanuel.

"I will have an oath of silence from you, or you will die where you stand. We will renter the Great Hall, we will sip our drinks and eat our food and we will wait out the long night until Thongvor Silver-Blood is gone. Then, Legate, you will leave this city with your soldiers, you will run back to General Tullius and you will tell him what happened here," said Jarl Igmund with the calm clarity of a man who has lost all boundaries. To kill an Imperial Legate would mean true war with The Legion, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was surviving the night.

"A last favour, Jarl Igmund, before we are no longer friends? Before we stand on opposite sides of the city wall, ready for war?" Legate Emmanuel stood there, weary and conflicted. He slowly nodded. "Very well, you have my silence."

* * *

Tacitus breathed a sigh of relief as Ondolemar excused himself from the table. His heart had been racing, and his hands had gone clammy in the presence of the most imposing man he'd ever met. Any of the big Nords in the room looked like children after the fury of an Elf.

"I'm so glad he's gone," he breathed heavily to Aicantar.

"And with him, the wine," Aicantar said with a weak smile. "Tacitus." His eyes brimmed with moisture. His cheeks had gone red, and his skin had gone cold. "Have I made a mistake? Am I going to die tomorrow?"

"Maybe," said Tacitus with a shrug. "This is war, and neither of us are invulnerable, but I'll be damned if I don't do everything I can to keep my only friend alive."

Aicantar wiped a teary eye. "We're friends already?" he said with a wet laugh.

"I've watched over your unconscious body, and you're the only person to not care that I'm a useless smith apprentice. To me, that's friendship," said Tacitus.

"You're not useless, Tacitus," said Aicantar with a serious look.

"You've never seen me smith anything," said Tacitus, refusing to be abashed from his disposition or his good mood. "But you're proving my point. For some reason, you've chosen to believe in me, and I'm grateful. Unfounded faith is faith nonetheless."

Aicantar smiled and shook his head in defeat. "Let's go somewhere else, out of the Great Hall."

"Where?" asked Tacitus.

"Have you ever seen a museum?"

* * *

"The Dwemer Museum," said Aicantar with grandeur as he heaved open a set of heavy bronze doors. A dusty beam of pale light swept across the room and glittered off countless Dwemer treasures tucked into glass display cases or strung up proudly on plaques. Intact animunculi stood on stone podiums, their metal bodies twisted in positions of attack. The malfunctioned bodies of metal spiders littered the bases of the larger beasts.

A grizzled guard in green armour jumped up from a wooden chair at the sound of the door opening. He recognised Aicantar and raised a hand in a friendly salute. "Master Aicantar," he said from underneath a thick brown beard.

"At ease, guardsman," said Aicantar with a friendly nod, and the guard resumed his post in his chair.

Tacitus gingerly stepped around delicate displays of Dwemer craftsmanship and stopped occasionally to admire a specific piece. A purple stone cup with a gold rim. A battered chest plate. A polished bronze cutlery set.

"It gets better as we go," said Aicantar, his voice echoing off the high ceiling.

"I had no idea this was here," said Tacitus in wonder. The entrance hall spilled out into the museum proper where Calcelmo's most treasured displays were kept. The centre of the room housed a Dwarven Centurion, whose soulless metal face and twisted golden joints created an imposing image. It dwarfed everything else in the room. Tacitus felt unnerved at something so large seeming so still and quiet.

A whole wall was taken up by a sheet of metal cogs, all turning for the sake of turning. Hundreds of them spiralled in their slots, teeth locked. They ranged from the size of a fingertip to the size of a man. Tacitus thought it an impressive display of engineering and wealth.

"This one is my favourite," said Aicantar, approaching a final wall. He stood grinning widely at Tacitus as the Imperial stared in wonder. "An entire armoury. My uncle was a very lucky man to find this," said Aicantar. Four complete suits of Dwarven armour rested on wooden mannequins, latticed helmets resplendent with metal plumes covering carved eyes. Weapons of all descriptions covered the walls; longswords and greatswords, flat hammers and twisted maces, small daggers and hefty war axes and pointed bows with their pronged arrows.

"Imagine a unit outfitted in this," said Tacitus. "They'd be unstoppable."

"All of this falling into the wrong hands would be dangerous, but that's why my uncle has his guards. A small army loyal to only him. It's funny, no one in Markarth has better weapons than my uncle, and he doesn't even know how to use them," said Aicantar, already walking away towards another door. Tacitus followed him, not without glancing back at the priceless Dwemer collection.

"This is what I wanted you to see," said Aicantar, pulling open a metal door. A cool breeze whisked into the room as the pair stepped out onto a paved walkway. Grey stone snaked upwards, hugging the mountain until it ended at the door to a tall, grey tower capped in bronze. Half way along, the path narrowed to let a white waterfall roar its way down into the city. "That's my uncle's tower. I don't go in there a lot, and he certainly won't be happy to find you inside."

"Then why are you taking me there? I'm sorry Aicantar, but I don't want to face the wrath of Court Wizard Calcelmo," said Tacitus, taking a step back.

"Don't worry, that's not where we're going," said Aicantar. "Come on!" he said excitedly, grabbing Tacitus by the wrist and dragging him down the path. A few steps led them around a corner and to a worn wooden table in an alcove to the side of the path. Ivy draped from an overhang like a thin green curtain, partially hiding the alcove.

"Is this it?" asked Tacitus, climbing the two short steps, pushing through the ivy. He noticed white pots blooming with lavender and burning heather.

"Take a seat," said Aicantar, sitting on an old wooden chair. Tacitus did as he was asked. It was dark in the alcove; the light being absorbed by the thick stone walls and ceiling and the ivy curtain. Aicantar brushed his hands over a cluster of candles in the centre of the table which promptly flickered with warm flame.

"It's almost creepy," said Tacitus hesitantly as Aicantar produced a bottle of wine from a low shelf and began pouring.

"Look over there," said Aicantar with a knowing smile. He gestured to the rock wall where an oval window had been cut. Tacitus stood up and walked over, resting his arms on the ledge. Aicantar joined him. "Have you ever seen something so beautiful?"

Tacitus hadn't realised how high they were. The view was of the entire city of Markarth. Orange light pooled from countless windows and lanterns, lighting the narrow, snaking streets and walkways. Each chasm and overhang could be peeked into. Tacitus watched the priestesses of Dibella perform their nightly pilgrimage around the city in their burning orange robes before returning to the incense infused, glittering Temple of Dibella. He watched patrols snake back and forth from the impossibly tall guards tower, yet he could still see over it. The night shift changed in Cidhna Mine. Ghorza put out the lanterns in her water work forge. Smelters and refineries belched out orange light, black smoke and the constant din of hammered metal.

"Look out further, beyond the city," said Aicantar, pointing.

The city wall stood strong from one side of the canyon to the other. Light glowed from walkways, storerooms and siege positions. It was a hollow hive, the pointed green guards ready to defend the city with their lives. Beyond the wall, however, the world was quiet. White moonlight shone on stables and barns, their makeshift wooden extensions tacked onto ancient Dwemer dwellings. Guard towers followed the sides of the canyon, a tower on alternate sides every quarter mile. A torch shone from the hollow lookout posts that crowned each tower, a guard in waiting. Between each tower, a pale grey wall rose from the ground, cutting most of the way across the widening canyon. This left a narrow, winding road that snaked between walls and guard posts. Following the road was the blue river that rushed from a grate in the city wall. The ingenuity of the Dwemer had turned a dark canyon into the most defensible city in Skyrim. An army could easily be stopped before they got near the city.

Beyond the fortifications, the canyon dropped into a low field where farmhouses dotted ploughed earth. Lord Skaggi Scar-Face's mine could be glimpsed behind a wall of rock. Passed the small patch of peaceful country, the river turned and headed North, beyond which a high mountain blocked all view.

"Everything is so far away. From inside the city, Markarth feels like the whole world. You get lost in the noise and the smoke, but from up here it all looks so small. The rest of the world is stretched out beyond Markarth, and no one in this city even realises," said Tacitus, wistfully.

"That's why I come up here. Nothing can get you this high up. All the worries, all the dangers are left down in that city. It's safe above the Jarl, above the Silver-Bloods, above the Thalmor," said Aicantar.

"I think I understand. Even if the war came to Markarth, it's hard to think it could reach us so high above the city," said Tacitus. He turned away from the view and sat down at the table. Aicantar followed him pensively.

"We both go to war tomorrow," said Tacitus.

"What did I say about no worries following us?" said Aicantar.

"I know, but I think you need to talk about this. You killed a man," he said sternly.

"I know that, Tacitus," said Aicantar, getting agitated. His blue eyes glowed, and his wide nostrils flared.

"You killed a man, saw a dozen dead bodies and it broke you. Do you really think you're ready for battle?" asked Tacitus, grabbing his hand. He stared intensely into the Elf's eyes.

"Why are you doing this, Tacitus?" asked Aicantar pulling away.

"Because tomorrow you might kill a dozen men and see many, many dozens of bodies. I need to know that you're ready, because the moment someone's mind breaks in battle, they're dead. You _cannot_ allow that to happen," said Tacitus, his voice filled with worry.

Aicantar breathed deeply and looked down into his drink. "I don't intend to kill tomorrow. Emissary Ondolemar wants me to, but I won't do it," he said quietly.

"Then why are you coming?" asked Tacitus, visibly confused.

"Because I've never left this city. I come here every night and stare out there, but I've never stepped foot outside those walls, at least not since I was a baby. My uncle has forbidden it, and no one has ever offered me an escape until Emissary Ondolemar this evening. I can't turn away from that," said Aicantar sullenly.

"Why is it forbidden?" asked Tacitus softly.

Aicantar looked up with raised brows and smiled. "I know healing magic as well as spells that can shield from magic _and_ swords and arrows. Tomorrow my job will be to keep the other mages from harm as well as care for the wounded. I intend to keep myself as far from harm's way as possible. Does that satisfy you?"

Tacitus decided to ignore Aicantar's avoidance from his question. "I suppose it will have to, thank you," he said with a gentle smile.

The creak of the metal door broke them from their private world. Tacitus jumped in shock and looked around in worry, but Aicantar put a hand on his wrist to calm him. "Uncle?" he called out. A few seconds later, the ivy curtain was pulled aside and a dazed looking Calcelmo stepped into the alcove. Tacitus stood up in respect.

"Aicantar, there you are," said Calcelmo with his gruff, wise voice. His silver beard and orange eyes peeked from under his blue hood. His eyes darted to Tacitus. "Who is this?"

"Uncle, this is Tacitus. He's Ghorza's assistant," said Aicantar simply.

Calcelmo's face softened, and he shot a hand in Tacitus' direction. Tacitus took it hesitantly which was received by an eager shake from Calcelmo. "I've heard much about you, Tacitus. Moth says you have great potential."

Tacitus looked shocked for a moment, blushed and smiled. "Thank you, sir."

Calcelmo turned back towards Aicantar, a more serious tone returning to his aged face. "Aicantar, I must ask, no – demand something of you."

Aicantar looked worried and glanced at Tacitus. "What is it, uncle?"

"Tomorrow you must leave the city," he said. "That is non-negotiable. I cannot tell you what nor why, but Markarth is about to become a very dangerous place, and you cannot be here." Aicantar opened his mouth to reply, closed it again and looked away from his uncle. Calcelmo caught onto the deflective look immediately. "What have you done, boy?" he asked seriously.

Aicantar looked back up at his uncle and steeled himself. "I have agreed to go to Karthspire tomorrow."

Calcelmo's eyes widened in anger and shock. "Agreed? Agreed to who?"

"Emissary Ondolemar," he said quickly. He continued before his uncle could say another word. "I won't be involved in the fighting. My magic is needed for healing and shielding, and Tacitus and Ghorza will be there. Emissary Ondolemar has also promised me his protection."

Calcelmo looked angry and confused, but his face faded into sorrow. "What have you got yourself into?" he asked softly. He sighed deeply. "I suppose I should expect this. Every corner of The Reach is filled with war and death, and I cannot allow you to stay in Markarth, so I suppose it is wise I send you out with friends and protectors."

Aicantar looked shocked at his uncle's acceptance. From being forbidden from leaving the city to permission to enter battle? It didn't add up. "Uncle, what is about to happen? Is it really that bad?"

"I've already said all I can say. I know it isn't much, but trust my word on the severity of the danger. I would not allow this unless I had to. You stick with Tacitus and Ghorza, you hear me? And Ondolemar. I do not trust the Thalmor, but I cannot imagine he means you any harm." In a flash, he had grabbed Aicantar by the wrist. "You must promise me you will stay away from the Silver-Bloods, do you hear me? Promise," he said intensely.

"I promise, uncle," Aicantar said fearfully.

"You will avoid them at any cost. You will not look at them. You will not let them see you."

"I said I promise, uncle," Aicantar said hurriedly but with slight force. More and more didn't add up.

Calcelmo let go of Aicantar and straightened himself. He still looked worried, but he was calmer. "Go to bed, both of you. I will see you off in the morning, but heed my warnings you two." He cast a stern look at Tacitus. "Goodnight," he said emotionlessly and backed away through the ivy curtain. His footsteps could be heard heading towards his tower.

"That was strange," said Aicantar, staring at the twirling ivy.

"I know. What could be happening in Markarth?" said Tacitus, taking a place beside Aicantar.

"No," said Aicantar, turning towards Tacitus. "He was _nice_ to you."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry for the abysmally late update. Life has a habit of getting in the way, but I never forgot this story. I will endeavour to update more often, but as always I welcome all feedback for this chapter.**

Markarth rested in the rare few hours of darkness that existed in the city. The night fires had long since burned out, and no one was awake to relight him, and so the city gently slept under the thin light of waning moons. The darks crags and chasms of Markarth rolled down from Understone Keep, snaking alongside the Palace River until they reached the market square. Dozens of empty stools guarded the open space, bathed only in the softest moonlight and the torch glow of the wall. The night patrols were the few left awake as they marched the twisted paths of the honeycomb wall. Orange light spilled from storeroom windows and pillared cloisters. On the other side of the city, by the Forge River, pinpricks of yellow light shone from the silver smelters. They pumped black smoke into the city that rose above the houses and cliffs, before drifting into the snowy mountains. A smelter was never allowed to go cold, and any worker who made such a mistake was beaten to an inch of his life.

Aicantar watched the few distant lights in the city for many hours. The guards on the walls marched their unceasing patrols, and the few unlucky smelters fed coal into the roaring forges. Other than that, not a soul moved in the streets of Markarth.

The farthest horizon drifted into life. The black sky was stained with the darkest blue, and his heart felt heavy with the first whispers of dawn. His ivy-draped alcove had become his bed for the night, but he did not sleep. Instead, he wrapped thick furs around him and lost himself in thought for hours, ignoring the night drifting on and the air getting colder. The plants were covered in a thick layer of frost, but his furs and magic had kept him warm. A small fire heated a black kettle, and he clutched a steaming mug of bitter tea. It had been a long night, and Tacitus had left him many hours ago, but he had a found a strange peace in watching thousands of people slowly drift to sleep.

The horizon got lighter as the blue sky got paler. He knew it wasn't long before the city woke up and he would march out the gates, yet he could not move. The air was too still and the city too quiet to be disturbed, so he allowed himself the last moments of peace before he headed into the unknown.

The peace did not last long. The slap of feet on stone shook him away from the city, and he listened with tense muscles until the ivy was gently brushed away. Stood before him was his uncle, dressed in nothing but a thick fur robe that reached the cold stone floor. His signature purple robes were nowhere to be seen, and his silver hair and beard were messy from a night's sleep.

"I didn't expect you up so early," said Aicantar with a yawn.

"I didn't expect you up either, but I saw your fire from my window," he said. "May I?" he asked, gesturing to the empty chair. Aicantar nodded, and Calcelmo lowered himself onto the hard wood with a groan. He wrapped the brown furs tight around himself until his neck was swallowed in bear pelt. "May I have some tea?"

Aicantar smiled and poured the bitter brown tea into a clay mug and handed it to Calcelmo. Both elves sat in silence for several minutes, wrapped in fur while gently sipping their tea. Neither knew what to say to each other, so they didn't say anything as the first lights in the city began to appear. It was the Temple of Dibella that awoke first. Women clad in orange robes that hid all but their eyes marched in two neat lines out of bronze doors. The first few carried piles of kindling, the next vats of oil and the next flaming torches. All those behind held incense burners on chains or poles with the flower of Dibella held aloft. The lines split, flowing north and south. When reaching the first brazier, a devotee placed her kindling and continued her march. The next poured a thin dribble of amber oil from a golden vat, and the last would bow deeply and kiss the wood with her torch. The cycle continued until the temple was radiant once more. Atop the crag that split Markarth, bathed in white starlight and warm flames, the Temple of Dibella truly looked ethereal. Gardens of orange and white flowers lined walkways and hung off banisters, metal planters spilling over with vines and berries swung in the light breeze, and the Miracle of Dibella hung over the city streets – a single blossom tree that grew straight from the cold rock. Spring had long since left Markarth, but during those bright months a constant rain of pink petals fell into the city below. Now, the tree dropped heavy red apples which often landed on unwary citizens, including Aicantar several times. The procession left the cloisters and stairways of the temple and headed into the city, lighting burners and braziers as they went. The Devotees of Dibella bathed the dark alleys and bridges in flame, and the silent night was over.

"you weren't going to tell me, were you?" asked Calcelmo as the procession ended with two guards donned in white ceramic plate armour strapped to silver chainmail. The heavy Nord women hefted pointed halberds as they followed the devotees into Markarth.

"That I was leaving? No," said Aicantar simply. He felt ashamed, and he hoped that his uncle wouldn't press further.

"You didn't think I would notice? Aicantar, I would have no idea where you were. You could die out there, and I would never know," Calcelmo said, placing his tea on the table and swivelling in his chair to face his nephew.

"I'm sorry, uncle, but you're always so wrapped up in your research or the Jarl, I didn't think it would make much difference. You don't know where I am or what I do, anyway. You never ask, and our lives rarely cross over."

"Oh, don't I?" said Calcelmo with a mischievous smirk. "I don't ask, my boy, because I know. I have kept a close eye on you since before you could walk, and you have very few secrets from me. I know that you steal from my laboratory and museum and sell my collection around Markarth."

Aicantar was horrified. He expected to get a clip round the ear there and then, but all he got was a warm smile and a pat on the arm. "How did you find out?"

"Ghorza let a few things slip to Moth, who let a few things slip to me. Everyone talks in the Keep."

"Why didn't you stop me?" he asked.

"Every boy needs a hobby, besides you're quite good. Had Ghorza never said anything, I doubt I would have noticed anything missing," he said, turning back to watch the city.

"Was that a compliment?" asked Aicantar with his tongue in his cheek.

"My old age must be getting to me," Calcelmo laughed. There was a pause as they let their smiles drift away. "I also know that you killed a Forsworn assassin."

"The Jarl says it didn't happen," said Aicantar without emotion. He couldn't look at his uncle.

"But it did, and you could've died."

"The assassin wasn't for me. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Or the right place. That woman and the silversmith's wife may well have died without you. I want you to remember that. Ghorza said that taking someone's life hit you hard, but do not forget that someone else is alive because of it," said Calcelmo.

"But what if one day I have to decide whose life is worth more?" he said, his eyes beginning to water. His tears did not go unnoticed.

"Let us hope you never have to make that decision, but if it comes to it, you have to choose yourself. The young always want to be heroes, but your first priority must always be you. Then your friends." Calcelmo could see the conversation was not helping his nephew, so with a gentle squeeze of Aicantar's arm and another serving of tea, he moved on.

"Speaking of friends, you and that Tacitus boy seem to be… close."

Aicantar knew what that meant, and he couldn't help but laugh. "Imperials are not my type."

"No one seems to be your type. I see much, Aicantar, but I have never seen you involved with someone." From somewhere within his fur robe, Calcelmo produced a paper bag which he placed on the table. From it, he produced two sticky sweetrolls, and Aicantar gratefully took one.

"You're one to talk," he said, licking sweet icing off his fingers. "All my life, and you've never set eyes on a woman."

Calcelmo waved his hand and huffed. "I spent far too much time on my research that by the time I looked up everyone was gone, and so I looked back down again." Calcelmo turned back towards his nephew with a glint in his eye. "But you don't know as much about me as you might think."

Aicantar opened his mouth to respond, but a horn echoed across the city. A silhouetted guard stood by the tower that pierced the centre of the city on the far side of the Temple of Dibella. He pressed a goat horn to his lips and let out another short, tinny burst of noise. It was the changing of the watch, and Aicantar cast his eyes to the horizon which now burst with the first rays of a rising sun.

"You better get yourself ready. Battle awaits you."

* * *

Thongvor Silver-Blood raised his gauntleted hand to shield his eyes from the red dawn sun. Light pierced the canyon as the sun peaked over the distant mountain and bathed the stone walls and green fields in warm orange light. From the city wall and the field before it, horns rumbled a deep threatening note. He turned to face rigid lines of soldiers in shining steel armour and red shields. Banners fluttered above the 600 men, emblazoned with the sigil of Clan Silver-Blood; a silver dagger striking an ingot on a sea of blood. He lifted his steel helmet from the crook of his elbow and slapped it onto his head, hiding all but his pale blue eyes. The horns blasted across the canyon once more, prompting the army to begin their long march to Karthspire. War drums started a slow, ominous beat as steel capped boots stepped in time. Thongvor Silver-Blood sat motionless atop his war horse as soldiers marched beneath him. A banner fluttered passed him, and he allowed himself the briefest of smiles. He had been born to lead an army, and he had never lost a battle in his 50 years. Jarl Igmund's newfound ambition frustrated him, but the chance to slaughter Forsworn was welcome. Being cooped up in the Treasury House and Understone Keep had made him soft, and a good bloodbath would bring him back to his senses. With one last check of his armour, he flicked the reigns of his horse and trotted to the front of his army.

Jarl Igmund wrapped his furs tightly around himself against the cool morning. White frost covered the bronze towers, and a thin sheen of mist sat on the icy fields before him. He watched with grim relief as the red soldiers marched away from Markarth. Sooner or later they would be marching back, demanding his head, but for now they were gone. Faleen stood to his side, a collar of black fur tickling her cheeks.

"We made it," she breathed quietly.

"Not yet we haven't," said Jarl Igmund with a sigh. "This is only the beginning."

"So what's next? What must we do to keep Markarth within our grasp?" she asked with grim determination.

"First we need to _get_ Markarth within our grasp. The enemy has not yet left the city. More Silver-Bloods linger in the Treasury House, and their threat is as great as Thongvor's. If it came to it, how many guards would be loyal to me?"

There was a pause as Faleen bit her lip. "It's hard to say. I know many of them personally, and they are all good strong men, but it is easy for good men to fall into the Silver-Bloods' pocket." There was a further pause as she turned towards the city. "About half, give or take. Certainly every man within Understone Keep."

"It's not good enough, but it's a start. Make sure no new or unfamiliar guards are posted in the Keep."

"With all due respect, my Jarl, we cannot hope to fend off Thongvor when he inevitably returns if the city is not ours," said Faleen. Jarl Igmund did not look at her. He stared as the red soldiers snaked their way along the cobbled road, passed watch towers where Jarl Igmund's men stood on guard, refusing to provoke the soldiers in any way. That did not stop some Silver-Blood soldiers showing crude gestures to the watchmen.

"I still have soldiers not fighting in this god's cursed war. There's an entire battalion stationed at Left Hand Mine, just there," he said, pointing to a cliff that jutted into the farmland. "They can be called into the city when the time comes. There's also Deep Folk Crossing, but I'm certain they'll be needed there. Other than that, I've sent word to my generals across Skyrim. Some messages will reach them in time, others won't. Some might ignore me and carry on fighting the Stormcloaks. We will just have to wait and see what help arrives."

"When it comes to war, your family home will be a prime target for the Silver-Bloods, but is it as important as Markarth?"

"Perhaps not, but it is one of the few ways into the Reach, and so its value is immense. Any army invading from the north must cross the Karth or the Deep Folk. As it stands, Deep Folk Crossing is still mine, and Karthwasten is loyal to me. The north is our strongest position in this whole damn hold," said Jarl Igmund. He was already creating a map of his supporters and those who follow the Silver-Bloods.

"But who would be looking to attack from the north?" asked Faleen, but she realised the answer as she asked her question. Both her and Jarl Igmund stared as a lone rider left Markarth, steel armour covered in a red cloak emblazoned with a dragon.

"Imperials."

* * *

The rear-guard seemed friendly enough, if a little distant, pondered Aicantar as he trudged at the back of the red hoard. It was strange to see a full army dressed for war, but it gave him a sense of childish excitement. The guards of Markarth had always intimidated him slightly, but he saw now that they were just tame peacekeepers, not a wave in the tide of war as the Silver-Bloods were. He noticed it wasn't only the shields and banners that shone with Silver-Blood patriotism, but their faces. Red and silver war paint splattered the dirty faces of the Nord soldiers, and the colours often showed on the flowing tattoos that snaked down bulging arms. A skinny, clean elf did not seem to fit, but he was with Ondolemar, and the Thalmor agent was as confident as ever. His golden guards remained ever present, joined by two more in identical gleaming, feathered armour. They all wore stoic faces. What impressed Aicantar the most was the additional Thalmor mage, dressed in the same dark robes as Ondolemar, but the gold lightning wasn't nearly as vivid, and the collar wasn't nearly so high. He also lacked a gold rim around his hood. It was a subtle show of office, but a good eye could spot it. Joining the Thalmor and the rear-guard were the other odds-and-ends of the army. Cooks hefted large pots on their shoulders filled with meats and winter vegetables. Healers hoisted small crates of clinking tinctures and bushels of herbs. The scouts not on active patrol twiddled their bows and laughed with the other guards. Finally, there was Ghorza and Tacitus, accompanied by a fat pony pulling a cart that bristled with weapons. Armour clanged together in small piles, and a squat anvil swung from a rope on one side of cart.

"Karthspire isn't as far from Markarth as most would think," said Ondolemar suddenly, causing Aicantar to turn. "I'm sure it's clever propaganda on behalf of the court to stop people whispering about Forsworn on the doorstep, but we should be there by nightfall," he said with the tone of someone simply wanting to be heard.

"Are we to attack them at night?" asked Aicantar.

"Possibly," said Ondolemar with a frown. "I am not privy to the tactics decided by Lord Silver-Blood and his generals, but I shouldn't think it would matter either way."

"What do you mean?"

"One starts a battle at night so that one maintains the element of surprise, however the Forsworn are the best guerrilla fighters in Skyrim. We've barely left the city, but no doubt they already know we're coming," he said with a raised brow, casting a glance at Aicantar.

"Does that not frighten you, that they may be watching us right now?" asked Aicantar with visible nerves.

Ghorza gave a sharp grunt.

"You have something to say, Orc?" asked Ondolemar with a sneer.

"The boy has never left the city. Anyone who travels the Reach gets used to the eyes," said Ghorza, patting the pony's nose with her thick green hand.

"I'm afraid she's right," said Ondolemar. Agreeing with an orc was not what he was used to.

"You said they're the best guerrilla fighters in Skyrim? I've never heard anyone compliment the Forsworn, my Lord," said Tacitus.

"If they were easy to kill, do you think they'd have control of the countryside?" said Ondolemar with a hint of frustration. "They are bloodthirsty savages, yes, but they're good fighters with smart leaders. Hundreds of groups in history have tried to take over a country with this kind of warfare, but very few succeeded. The Bosmer and Argonians are good guerrilla fighters, but they have cities and armies to help with supplies and organisation. The Forsworn have nothing, yet they terrorise even the strongest opponents. Respect where it's due."

There was silence apart from the dull thud of the marching army. Aicantar looked to where the head of the snake stood atop a rock in the distance. Thongvor Silver-blood watched his army as Aicantar watched him and remembered his uncle's words. He was glad to be at the back of the column. He took a deep breath.

"The air out here almost smells sweet," he said with a small smile.

Tacitus laughed. "You've only ever smelt the bitter smoke of Markarth. Out here, it's pure and cold. I almost envy the Forsworn sometimes. It's beautiful when you're not trapped in the city."

Aicantar looked across the countryside in the red dawn. He saw cold mist roll down from the mountains as the fields gave way to wild meadows and stunted juniper orchards. He couldn't help but agree.

* * *

"We are at a disadvantage in almost every respect," said Jarl Igmund. "The only thing on our side is the element of surprise. Sooner or later, the Silver-Bloods will find out the truth, and we need to make sure we've done everything we can to be prepared." The war room was quiet. Jarl Igmund's closest advisors and friends didn't make a sound as he raised his brows questioningly. "Nothing?"

"My Jarl," Faleen said to his right. "Short of marching to the Treasury House and arresting Thonar Silver-Blood, there isn't much we can do. I've already done a thorough check of the guards in Understone Keep, and I'm willing to bet my life that they are all loyal to you."

"And how many guards are there in the keep?" asked Jarl Igmund, swivelling in his chair to face his housecarl.

"Two dozen. Court Wizard Calcelmo has kindly given me command of all the guards from the excavation site and his museum," she said, her hazel eyes dancing across the table to Calcelmo, and she flashed a bashful smile. Calcelmo choked under her gaze, his cheeks turning orange.

"It is the least I can do, my Jarl. Truly," he spluttered, tugging on his white beard.

"Good. With only one way into the keep, two dozen guards can hold the door for a long time."

Raerek placed his hand daintily on the stone table and tapped it with his knuckles. His wrinkled neck wobbled with every word, and small jewels clinked each time he moved. "it's a start, nephew, but Understone Keep is not the city."

"I know, uncle. How do you suggest we take the city?" said Jarl Igmund with growing frustration.

"With our soldiers locked away in the Keep, the Silver-Bloods outnumber us two to one in the streets. They have the mines, the foundries, the marketplace, the Treasury House and the Guard Tower. Any and all defensible places within the city are theirs," said Raerek, spitefully ticking off fingers as he listed the Silver-Blood properties.

"We must have something," grunted Moth gro-Bagol, his meaty green arms crossed as he lounged in his chair.

"Except for this prison?" asked Jarl Igmund. "Nothing."

"Then we call upon our allies," said Faleen. "Withdraw your soldiers from Left Hand Mine. That'll even the odds a bit."

"Lord Skaggi would never forgive me for abandoning him. When Thongvor Silver-Blood returns, he'll seize the mine in a heartbeat, and that's if Lord Skaggi doesn't defect when I leave him to the mercy of the Forsworn."

"Besides," said Moth. "I'm sure the Silver-Bloods are suspicious already. If they see a battalion of your men marching on the city, they'll prepare a defence immediately."

"But that's it," said Faleen with sudden excitement. "We have the watchtowers and the stables. It's not much, but the road into the city is ours."

"The road does not help us, Faleen," said Jarl Igmund.

"Hear me out. Most of the men on the walls are your soldiers. It won't take me much to fiddle the guard rotas and assign the Silver-Blood men elsewhere. With any luck, they won't even notice."

"And then we have the wall," said Calcelmo, beaming at Faleen, his yellow eyes twinkling.

"More than that, it leaves the path free for us to sneak soldiers away from Left Hand Mine. They come to the city at night, and we stow them away in storerooms and hidey-holes within the wall," said Faleen, eagerly looking at Jarl Igmund who only offered silent thought.

Jarl Igmund tapped his nose before wrinkling it in the smallest of smiles. "When the time comes, the Silver-Bloods won't expect so many men to attack from the walls. We'll have them trapped between two fronts, and all we have to do is squeeze." He looked around the room with a hopeful glint in his blue eyes. "It might just work."

"There's a lot of risk there. Too much risk," said Raerek, shaking his head. His jowls wiggled with the motion. "We need more."

"You're right, of course, but it's an excellent start. Besides, the soldiers at Left Hand Mine will be hugely outnumbered when Thongvor returns, so better to put them to good use than let them die in vain. Thank you, Faleen. Go, all of you, prepare yourselves in whatever small way you can. The attack will come without warning, and I only hope I can get my men inside the walls in time," said Jarl Igmund with a wave of his hand. Those gathered stood up and bowed before drifting out of the war room. All except Calcelmo.

"Jarl Igmund, may I speak with you?" asked Calcelmo. With a sigh, Jarl Igmund beckoned him over. "My Jarl, I may have done a stupid thing."

"What have you done?" Jarl Igmund demanded with equal measures anger and fear.

"Nothing to hurt the war effort, not directly at least," said Calcelmo. The look in Jarl Igmund's eyes dampened slightly. "It's my nephew, Aicantar. With all the trouble going on in the city and- well, he came to me saying he was leaving the city, and I had to let him go. It's far too dangerous here."

"And why is this a problem?"

"He's off to fight the Forsworn with the Silver-Bloods. I thought… I thought if something went wrong he could escape. If something happens in the city then there's no way out," said Calcelmo.

"You worried about your nephew's safety, so you sent him to war? Calcelmo, I don't understand," said Jarl Igmund with a frown.

"He'll be at the back of the lines. A healer more than a soldier. Emissary Ondolemar swore that he would protect Aicantar. Ghorza and her assistant will too," said Calcelmo. He paused and took a deep breath. "Jarl Igmund, I don't know if we can win this."

"We will win this," said Jarl Igmund with a cold look.

"But if we don't, then you'll be killed. Faleen will be killed, Raerek will be killed. A court wizard, however, serves the city not his Jarl. I have held this post for 200 years. I served your ancestors, I served your father, but I also served the Forsworn when they held the city. I served Ulfric Stormcloak. I survive whoever wins, but my loyalty is to you. The cruelty of the Stormcloaks is not something I wish to return to Markarth, but I will survive if it does. That protection, however, does not extend to my kin. Do you understand?"

Jarl Igmund looked away from Calcelmo and to the map before him. Small counters showed fortresses and armies, some a deep green but most of them were blood red. "I think I understand. This city is a prison, and when it burns no one escapes the blaze. Out there, no matter the odds, there's always hope. There is no hope left in Markarth, not unless I can reclaim the city from those snakes."

"Thank you, Jarl Igmund. I didn't know if I'd made the right choice." Calcelmo lowered himself into a stone chair. "But you're right. We still need to reclaim the city. I think I have an idea."

* * *

The heat of many roaring fires hit Kerah as she creaked open the door to the Silver-Blood Inn. Orange light bathed her face, and the raucous sounds of the inn assaulted her ears. Lively conversations bounced around fire places, and metal mugs scraped along wooden counters. The bartender was greasy and miserable, and his plump wife barked constant orders at him from a corner of the room. The lilting sound of a lute fluttered behind the sounds of a brawl. She glanced over to the corner where two unwashed Nords wrestled each other across a table. She shook her head and glided her way to one of several corridors leading from the hall. Dwarven gas lanterns cast a soft green glow over her as the noise of merriment faded away behind her. A slither of orange light crept out from the ajar door at the end of the corridor, and Kerah took a deep breath before creaking the bronze door open.

"Kerah, come in quickly," said the woman sat in a stone chair by the fireplace. Kerah locked the door and dutifully slid into the adjacent chair. Her back remained straight and her hands lay clenched in her lap. "You can relax, my friend, the Legion gave me wards to protect this room. No one can hear us, and no one can come in."

"After what happened in the market, can we really be sure that we're safe." There was silence as the two women stared into the fire. "Margret?"

"What happened in the market was… incalculable. If that elf hadn't been there, and if you hadn't dragged me away-"

"We cannot think about that. The point is you survived," Kerah said.

"But my agents didn't. All of them were killed in the attack," said Margret, standing up. She walked over to a silver drinks trolley, pushing a lock of burning orange hair away from her fair face. Brandy dribbled from a crystal decanter into matching glasses, and Margret passed one of them to Kerah who accepted it gratefully. "We were not in Markarth for the Forsworn, but they targeted us. How did they find out about us, and why did they care enough to slaughter my people?" said Margret in an increasingly frantic babble. She paced about the room, waving her free hand wildly. "It doesn't make sense. It just doesn't! It was needless and barbaric-"

"And that's what the Forsworn are known for. They pillage and maim and slaughter any outsider in the Reach, and that includes us," said Kerah, standing up. She took Margret by the hand and led her back to the stone chair. She threw another log on the fire as she spoke. "They hate the Nords, they hate the Orcs, they hate Jarls and Lords and Thanes. Why should it be, then, that they would spare Imperial agents?"

"Kerah," Margret said, turning to the Redguard with glimmering brown eyes. "You are a true friend and an invaluable ally to the Imperial Legion, but there is a bigger picture here that you're not seeing." She stood up and walked to a stone shelf embedded in the wall. She gently grasped the red leather hilt of a polished steel dagger. She brought it back to the fireplace and handed it to Kerah. The Redguard woman took the blade, twisting it so that the firelight shone off the bright metal. "This is the weapon the Forsworn tried to kill me with."

"Why are you showing this to me?" asked Kerah.

"For one, while the blade itself isn't special, it's far too expensive for a silver miner to afford. Each of the assassins carried similar blades, and that means someone funded the attack. Secondly, it's just a dagger. The Forsworn specialise in acts of terrorism, and in doing so they want to cause as much damage and fear as possible. Do you remember the attack on Salvius Farm a few years back?"

"Yes, they used alchemical explosives to demolish the farmhouses. A lot of young men died that day," said Kerah.

"It was a tragedy, but can you imagine the damage that six men armed with those explosives could have done in the market square? But instead they had little steel daggers," said Margret, snatching the weapon back and holding it in the air.

"I think I'm starting to see," said Kerah with a deep frown.

"This was not an act of terrorism. It was a deliberate assassination attempt on specific targets, those being hidden agents of the Imperial Legion. Someone found out about our mission, and that someone did not want us to succeed," said Margret. She didn't want to admit it, but the thrill of the mystery excited her. She couldn't help but crack a small smile.

"But why?" asked Kerah.

"That, my friend, is the question we need to answer."

* * *

As the day rolled on and the army crossed the great Stone River that flowed from the city, the lush valley gave way to grey rock and grey shrubs. Mist seeped down from the high mountains on either side, mixing with the spray from countless waterfalls, yet the cobbled road snaked ever onward. The sun shone high above the weathered valley, but in a few hours it would sink behind the opposing mountains, and the Reach would once again be shrouded in ghostly darkness. Aicantar knew that they were nearing Karthspire. As the army drew closer to battle, a churning fear gripped his stomach, but he was determined to not let it show. If any of the others felt it, then they were certainly hiding it well. Tacitus, Ghorza and Ondolemar were finally finding common ground by discussing the one thing they all loathed – Stormcloaks.

"It's as if they're brainless, drunken Nords. They grab weapons and run to war like children playing in gardens," said Tacitus. "I'd like to see how their fervour collapses once they really feel the heat of war."

"They _are_ a rabble of unruly drunken Nords. There's no structure, no tactics. I saw their defeat at Whiterun, and it was truly embarrassing," said Ondolemar. He despised the Stormcloaks, if only for their lack of manners.

"I heard that they lost, but details of the siege never reached Markarth," said Ghorza. "If they'd only let one good Orc into their army then I'm sure they'd have won," she said with a wink.

"Or a mage," piped in Aicantar. He thought the conversation might take his mind off the impending battle.

"Nothing could have saved those Stormcloaks," said Ondolemar with a shake of his head. "Now I'm sure none of you are experts in tactics and strategy, but even a dull Orc could have planned that better. It was one straight path up to the city gates, and all that stood between the Stormcloaks and victory was a shield wall of Legion soldiers. Wave after wave of poorly armoured, poorly trained hateful Nords broke on that wall. Whiterun archers fired unhindered. Fire and ice cut through their ranks from Imperial battlemages. It was a massacre." For a moment, Aicantar thought that Ondolemar would show some sorrow for the dead, but Ondolemar only smiled. "It was beautiful."

"I thought the Thalmor haven't taken a side in the war," said Ghorza.

"They haven't officially, but… well, tell me, Aicantar, as an elf, would you sympathise with the Imperials or Stormcloaks?"

"The Imperials, of course. The Stormcloaks despise all races except Nords."

"There's your answer, madam Orc," said Ondolemar with a smirk.

A couple of hours march brought the army to the deepest part of the chasm where the road met the Karth River and branched in two directions. Directly ahead, across the river, a third mountain loomed, casting a shadow into the valley. The mountains leered over the army, and Aicantar began to understand why the roads and mountains were feared. Only the fearful and ill-protected villages were under the control of the Jarl. The deep valleys, towering mountains and the dark ruins and forts of the Reach lay under the grasp of the Forsworn. Aicantar stood with one of the largest armies in the hold, but under the shadow of silent mountains he still felt vulnerable and scared.

The army turned right and marched onwards into the bowels of the Reach. It was yet gloomier by the time the back of the army reached the turning, but as Aicantar stared at the dark mass of rock in front of him, the mist thinned for a moment. Dark walls and pillars winked at him amongst densely packed trees. Bushy vines wrapped around every surface. Aicantar thought maybe he was mistaking an unusual outcrop for something else, but he caught glimpses of curving porches and overgrown steps. It was a building for sure, but it wasn't Dwemer, Nordic or Imperial. It had an exotic, ancient aura, and Aicantar knew that whatever the palace was for, it deserved solemn respect.

Aicantar thought of the ancient grey palace as the army followed the Karth River towards Karthspire. Several tributaries flowed into the river, and each time the rivers met, the army would have to cross a squat stone bridge. The water pouring from the mountains drenched the army in spray, and even Ondolemar lost a touch of his authoritarian look as his robes hung heavy and his hair stuck to his face. The sky glowed red as dusk settled, and the long day of marching had taken its toll on Aicantar. He was wet, tired and every muscle in his body burned with fatigue. He still refused to complain. Those around him were wearing down, but they were much more used to long marches and hard work, and Aicantar would not let them see him as weak. The blisters on his feet grew worse, and his breathing grew heavier as the march dragged ever onward.

"Here, have some of this," said Ondolemar, pulling a silver flask from his robes. He pushed it into Aicantar's hands. Aicantar popped the cap open and sniffed the contents. A sweet smell fluttered up his nose, and he frowned in confusion.

"Drink it," said Ondolemar. "It will help."

Aicantar raised the flask to his lips and gulped down a mouthful. It was sweet and perfumed. He rather liked it. He closed the flask and handed it back to Ondolemar with his thanks. "What is it?"

"A simple potion to restore stamina. It's made of honey and mountain flowers, and it's a great way to make a long march more bearable," said Ondolemar with a smile. Strands of blonde, almost white hair stuck out from under his hood, and his cut jaw ended with a dusting of hair on his chin. His cheeks were shadowed by his protruding cheekbones, and it looked like his features had been carved by a sculptor.

Aicantar was going to ask more questions about Ondolemar's knowledge of alchemy, but he noticed something strange. They were once again crossing a bridge, but this was different. While the others had all been built in the same, squat ugly style, this was flowing and artistic. A decorated shelter that hung with ivy covered their crossing. It was made with flicks and curves, not he harsh angles of Imperial design. It was the same architecture as the mountain palace.

"Who built this?" he asked, almost to himself.

"The ancient Akaviri," replied Ondolemar with a smile. "It means we're here."

* * *

Aicantar rubbed a bitter smelling, brown salve into his blisters with a wince. One of the kinder healers had saved some stock for those at the back of the march, and he couldn't tell if it was a prank or genuine help. The salve smelt liked smoke and dirt, and he couldn't feel it doing anything yet. He resigned to trusting the healer by finishing the salve treatment and gingerly sliding his boots back on. Night had truly fallen on the Reach, but the darkness was pierced by two dozen cooking fires amongst a sea of canvas tents. Once passed the Akaviri bridge, Thongvor Silver-Blood had ordered the army to set up camp along the roadside. They had the river to their left and a steep cliff to their right. It was as safe as anywhere in the Reach.

"Do you see them?" asked Ghorza, staring passed the firelight.

"Who? The Forsworn?" asked Tacitus, trying his best to find where Ghorza was staring.

"Mm-hmm," she grunted, resting her chin in her lap, with her knees brought up to her chest. "Just sit and watch for a bit. You'll see them eventually."

The group sat in silence, staring into the distance. Even the Thalmor joined in with the game. After several minutes, voices began to pipe up. One of the Elven soldiers let out an involuntary gasp. "I thought that was the trees," he whispered.

Aicantar leaned forward and squinted, and all of a sudden it became clear. What looked like a grove of trees in the distance, through which the stars twinkled, was another encampment. The stars were campfires, dozens if not a hundred of them. They all flickered in the shadows of at least a thousand people rushing around the encampment. It was a hive of insects, and their tireless scurrying carried on until Aicantar looked away and caught his eyes in their own campfire. He knew his eyes wouldn't adjust to the darkness again.

"There are so many of them," said Aicantar. "So many more than us. Are we sure we can win this?"

"Don't worry, Elf," said Ghorza. "We have strong men and strong steel on our side. One of our men are worth ten of theirs. What can furs and bone spears do against a Nord in steel?"

"I wouldn't be so sure," said Ondolemar slyly.

"And what do you know of armour, mage?" spat Ghorza.

"It is not the armour I'm arguing, you stupid Orc. I know the difference between fur and steel. Do not insult me like that again," he said with fire in his eyes and fury in his throat. Ghorza gnashed her tusks at him but did not provoke him further. "My point is that both armies fight for very different things. The Silver-Blood soldiers fight because they're paid well. The Forsworn fight for their freedom, their identity and their very existence. Do not underestimate what desperation can do to people. How do you think Briarhearts and Hagravens came to be?"

"Do you think there'll be Briarhearts and Hagravens there?" asked Tacitus with wide eyes.

"Briarhearts almost certainly, but they aren't anything to worry about. They're powerful warriors and can be powerful mages, but they're still men with a large seed for a heart. Hagravens, however… officially they were wiped out, but I'm not so sure." Ondolemar turned very serious and grabbed Aicantar's shoulders. He pulled the young Elf toward him and stared into his eyes, their noses almost touching. "If there's a Hagraven, then it is my duty to kill it. No man with a sword or shield could ever get close enough to swing at it. It has to be a mage. Aicantar, promise me. If we find a Hagraven, you run. You run straight away and you do not think of anyone but yourself."

"I promise," said Aicantar, taken aback by this sudden change in Ondolemar. He did not think that the Elf cared so much.

"You must understand, if you see a Hagraven and you do not run, then you will die."

"I understand," said Aicantar, pushing Ondolemar away. He frowned as the older Elf stared at him with something strange in his bright green eyes. "You don't trust me at all, do you?" said Aicantar. "Why did you bring me here if you didn't think I could fight?"

"Aicantar, Hagravens-"

"This isn't about Hagravens. You're the mighty Thalmor Justiciar, and I'm just a court wizard's nephew. You don't think I can look after myself _at all_ ," he said with pain in his voice. Even Aicantar didn't understand why this hurt him so much, but he was too worked up to stop now.

Ondolemar face was hard. He had little time for such emotions "Aicantar, I haven't seen your abilities, and you fainted after killing one man. Forgive me for being cautious."

"Then let me prove myself," said Aicantar defiantly.

"How do you intend to do that?" asked Ondolemar. He couldn't help but sound condescending.

Aicantar was silent. He felt embarrassed after his tantrum, but the long march had worn him down past the point of civility. He hated that Ondolemar was right. He sighed and shook his head.

During Ondolemar's time in the Thalmor, he'd trained many young mages, but they'd all been full of fire and talent. These outbursts weren't uncommon, but with Aicantar it came from a different place. He was a scared boy, way over his head on the eve of battle.

"You want to prove yourself? Fine. Stand up," Ondolemar said, pushing himself off the log he was sitting on.

"Why?" asked Aicantar.

"Do not argue with me. I told you to stand up, so you will stand," he said with a clenched jaw. If he had little time for emotional outbursts, then he certainly had none for insolence.

Aicantar stood up and furrowed his brow. There were murmurs amongst the present Thalmor. They knew what was coming, but Tacitus and Ghorza had the same look as Aicantar.

"We are going to duel. It's perfectly safe, but it lets me see what you can do, and it'll give you some practice before the battle." Ondolemar kicked the log he had been sitting on away from the fire and beckoned for everyone to do the same. Aicantar hesitantly rolled his log away and stood facing Ondolemar, his fingers twitching. Ghorza and Tacitus hesitantly rose from the damp ground and stepped away from the fire, their faces barely visible at the edge of the firelight. The Thalmor agent and the four soldiers moved miscellaneous debris and created a ring around the fire. It was Aicantar and Ondolemar alone in the arena.

"Stand still," said Ondolemar with a mischievous look. Roaring flames shone in his green eyes, and Aicantar couldn't help but feel intimidated by the tall Elf. The right side of his face was lit by fire and his left was hidden in shadows. Strands of hair fluttered in the light breeze, and the fire found dimples and cheekbones as Ondolemar smiled, baring sparkling teeth. Green, ethereal light materialised around his fingertips and swam like fish between his fingers and up his arm. Like a glowing shroud, they grew and draped themselves over Ondolemar who let the cloth find its way around his whole body until he himself glowed with a thin sheen of magic. A second later and Aicantar was wrapped in the same magical cloth. It was cool and calming as it soaked into his skin, and suddenly he felt a lot more at ease.

"That was a shield spell, used by all who train magic with the Thalmor. Spells should not cause any serious harm, but my magic can only protect us from so much. I assume you know at least basic wards and healing spells?" He asked with a cocked brow. Aicantar nodded in affirmation. Ondolemar allowed himself the briefest of sadistic smiles before whipping his arm up at Aicantar as if throwing a stone. From his palm, a ball of glowing orange flames spun out into the night, its sparking tendrils licking the cold air as it spiralled like an arrow towards Aicantar's chest. The force of impact knocked him to the ground, and his head hit the damp earth with a thud. The flames spread across his blue robes, and he raised his hand to smack out the fire, but it died as fast as it began. Apart from slight singes to his robes, the spell had done nothing.

"The first rule of duelling is to give away _nothing_ ," said Ondolemar as he leered over Aicantar. Without my protection, that could've caused some damage. Any spell more powerful than that would likely kill you." He reached out a golden hand which Aicantar grabbed with a grunt, and Ondolemar hoisted him to his feet. Aicantar's back and hair were now matted in mud.

"I wasn't ready," said Aicantar with a bitterness in his voice. His ego had taken a bigger hit than his chest.

"You had infinitely more warning than in a real duel. We stood facing each other in an open arena, chatting about magic. You should have already had an offense in one hand and a ward in the other. Tomorrow, no Hagraven or hedge wizard will ask if you're ready before plunging a shard of ice through your heart." Ondolemar walked away from Aicantar back towards the far end of the field.

Aicantar stood in the firelight, wet, muddy and singed. He was keenly aware that Tacitus and Ghorza were watching the display. He wasn't going to let that humiliation go quickly. With a sharp flick of his wrist, bolts of crackling blue electricity snapped from each fingertip. The lightning filled Aicantar's nostrils with the cool, sweet smell of a stormy night. His brows furrowed as the lightning cracked towards Ondolemar's exposed back. Faster than Aicantar thought was possible, Ondolemar's hand had caught the spell in a translucent blue ball that shimmered like water on the underside of a bridge. The Elf hadn't even turned around. He brought the lightning around to his face, admiring how the cage rippled with each tendril of lightning that touched it. He slowly turning around and looked into Aicantar's eyes, holding the spell in an open hand in front of him.

"It's a cowardly cheap trick to strike an opponent in his back," he said with a stern look. He clenched his hand into a fist, and the sphere exploded into a thousand tiny shards, and the lightning fizzled away. "Those kinds of tactics are devoid of honour, and those kinds of tricks are exactly what you'll need to win a duel." He cracked a knowing smile. Aicantar couldn't help but smile back. "Very few duels are won with honour. They are cruel, brutal, fast and dirty. Any mage who duels must be so too. Hit my again."

Aicantar took a deep breath and swung his arm round, bowling a large ball of flame at Ondolemar. It was twice the size as the one that Ondolemar had thrown at him, but it flew through the air a fraction of a second slower. Just slow enough for Ondolemar to raise a glittering ward. Like light bouncing off a shimmering pond, a great shield of glittering blue magic sliced through the air between the firebolt and Ondolemar. The flames collapsed upon the ward and had barely fizzled away before Ondolemar had launched his own assault in the form of a shard of white ice sharpened to a razor point. Aicantar was ready with his own ward, and the ice shattered upon it, showering the ground in glittering shards.

This assault continued back and forth several times, with no side gaining an advantage. Both Elves could feel the wards draining their Magicka, and so both were loath to increase the power of their spells. The ground was scorched from fire and lightning, and their shoulders and hair were dusted in tiny ice fragments. In the end, both their wards collapsed under the strain of magic, with Aicantar being forced to drop his several spells before Ondolemar. Luckily, he had fast enough reflexes to avoid the remaining spells.

"What do I do in a real duel?" Aicantar asked, breathing heavily. Both elves had stopped casting, and Aicantar was drenched in sweat. Ondolemar, meanwhile, looked like he was just beginning. "That kind of deadlock can only last so long."

"Most duels are made of that kind of battle. Almost all mages use wards, and so the trick is not to break you enemy's ward but to make sure they use up their magic reserves before you do. Wards will always be magically taxing, but you can control how much power goes into them. With time, you'll learn to guess the power of your opponents spell and adjust your ward accordingly," said Ondolemar.

"But what if we're both out of magic, or what if I don't have enough magic left to cast a killing blow?" Aicantar said, wiping his forehead and straightening up. His chest shook with the exertion of bringing his breathing under control.

"Some duels end with a spell. Some end with a blade," Ondolemar said. His hand once again shot out towards Aicantar, but this time it was a golden curved dagger that flew towards him. Aicantar gasped. His chest felt like wit would explode. He closed his eyes and put his hands in front of him. He heard Tacitus shout, but the impact never came. He creaked his eyes open to see a faint green shield in between himself and the dagger, which itself was slowly rotating in the air. Aicantar collapsed his shield, and with a laugh Ondolemar drew the dagger back to him and caught it in mid-air. He twirled it around his fingers as he spoke.

"A projected armour spell? That's not too easy to do. It probably wouldn't have stopped the dagger, but it may well have slowed it down enough to save your life."

"That's what I was going for," Aicantar choked out before slumping himself onto the ground. He lay on his back, staring at the sky. He pathetically swatted the air to signal that the duel was over.

Ondolemar walked over to Aicantar and leaned over him, a curious look on his face. "You're an ungraceful, ill-trained young elf, but that was some quick spellcasting and even quicker thinking. With a _lot_ of training you might be a half decent Thalmor agent."

A laugh forced its way from Aicantar's mouth so hard that it made him choke. He lay on his side spluttering into the grass as Ondolemar stepped back in disgust. It took several seconds, but Aicantar once again looked up as he wiped a tear away from his eye.

"I will never be a Thalmor. No Elf born outside of the Dominion can be."

"That's true, but there are loopholes to slip through and small print to ignore. Your stubborn uncle will never die, nor give up on his work. You'll be the court wizard's nephew forever unless you take control." He reached into a pocket inside his robes and pulled out a delicate, pale blue bottle the size of his thumb. He crouched down and pressed it into Aicantar's hand. A spark of residual magic flicked between the two, making Aicantar jump, but Ondolemar grabbed his hand and held it tight. "Drink all of it. It will help you regain some of your Magicka."

* * *

Aicantar lay motionless in his wet tent at the edge of the camp. Every fibre of his body screamed when he moved, and his limbs were dead with exhaustion, yet he could not sleep. His hair was till matted with mud and sweat, and he had resigned to pulling it back into a stinking, once-blonde bun. With every breath, the rancid smell of his body assaulted him, and his nausea grew by the minute. He didn't know people could smell this bad, yet he was trapped in a canvas prison with his own stench. His tent barely had enough for his thin straw bedroll, and was disappointed to find nowhere to hang his soiled robes, thus they lay in a crumpled pile, soaking up the night dew. Every time he moved, a fresh shower of freezing water dripped onto him, causing him to hiss with discomfort. Many hours had dragged on in this state, lying awake in the false warmth of the lantern that gently swung from the tent pole. No one told him that leaving Markarth would be this miserable.

A tent flap opened nearby. Wet canvas flapped in the wind for several seconds then suddenly stopped. Soft footfalls pattered the damp ground, coming closer. Aicantar groaned as he sat up to better hear the sounds. His hair brushed the roof of the tent, causing more water to soak his face. He wiped it away as whoever was out there stopped right outside his tent. He held his breath, hoping that the person would pass.

"Good, you're awake," said a Tacitus as he threw open Aicantar's tent flap. The swift movement caused Aicantar to jump, knocking the lantern which swung wildly.

"What in Oblivion are you doing?" he asked, pulling the itchy blanket over him.

"Ghorza's too big for both of us to fit in that tent. And she snores," he said while looking around the tent. His wet curls dangled in front of his eyes, and raindrops ran down his tanned skin. Dew glittered on his eyelashes, and his sea blue eyes sparkled in the light of the lantern. Aicantar couldn't help but notice that Tacitus was only dressed in a pair of button-down breeches that stopped at his knees. "It smells in here."

"You try fighting in a duel without breaking a sweat," said an embarrassed Aicantar.

"It's alright, I don't smell that great myself," said Tacitus while clambering into the tent.

"Hey, you don't actually think I'm going to let you sleep in here?" said Aicantar with wide eyes.

Tacitus lay himself down on the straw mattress, his arms clasped behind his head as a pillow. "You're not going to turn me away into the cold night, are you?"

The two men stared at each other, and Tacitus rolled onto his side, raising his brows and pouting his lips in a dramatized plea for sympathy. Aicantar huffed and slammed his head onto his pillow.

"No, I'm not."

Tacitus' face exploded into a brilliant smile, and he lay back down. "Did it hurt?"

"Did what hurt?" asked Aicantar, turning his back to Tacitus.

"The duel. It looked brutal, I've never seen anything like it," said Tacitus, staring at Aicantar's smooth yellow back. Shoulder blades pierced his thin frame.

"Honestly, I have never ached like this in my life. No one has every pushed my magic to that extreme."

"Can't you use more magic to heal yourself?"

Aicantar sighed and rolled over to look at Tacitus. "I could, but it'll waste even more magic that could save my life tomorrow. My Magicka probably won't fully regenerate in time as it is." There was a moments silence as Aicantar stared into Tacitus' eyes. "We should probably go to sleep," he said softly.

Tacitus smiled weakly and closed his eyes as both men rolled onto their backs.

"You're taking up most of the tent," said Aicantar. "But at least it's warmer." He paused for a brave moment. "I think I'll find it easier sleep now."

* * *

Ondolemar sat in a hard chair with a mug of wine clutched in his right hand. His left massaged his temple. Muddy and worn robes had been replaced with a midnight blue kimono that draped across his yellow skin, allowing a wedge of smooth yellow chest to glow in the firelight. The smoke from the embers drifted through a hole in the marquee's roof, and the room was bathed in a faded red glow.

He winced as he finally gave in and allowed a golden stream of healing magic to flow from his fingers and into his skull. He would never admit it to anyone, but Markarth had made him soft. A day's march and an amateur duel should not make his head and body ache so much. His vision was filled with the warm tendrils of Restoration magic, and the pain seeped away. With a sigh of relief, he cut his flow of magic and looked round his marquee. A worn and nearly rotten bed and dresser sat on a heavy red rug in the corner. Opposite was a small desk littered with writing equipment. A single tent pole stuck through the centre, holding the roof aloft. It wasn't much, but in a Nord war camp it was the height of luxury.

"Ondolemar," commanded a deep, rough voice outside the tent. Ondolemar flinched, and a single drop of ruby wine soaked into his gown.

"You may enter," he said, pulling his gown tighter as he stood up.

The tent flap opened, and Thongvor Silver-Blood marched into the warmth, his balding head creased with frown lines, and a sour look twisted his hard face.

"It is late, Silver-Blood," he said simply. He gestured towards his desk without breaking eye contact. "But may I offer you some wine?"

"No, I have no time for elven games," he said, taking a seat in Ondolemar's chair.

"Where I am from, it's simply called 'etiquette'," he said, grasping his mug with both hands while leaning on the tent pole. "But no matter." He stared down at Thongvor, who in turn grimaced at Ondolemar. In his ploy at power play, Thongvor had given Ondolemar the height advantage, and the elf was secretly quite pleased with the small advantage. "I am tired, and I wish to be left in peace. Whatever questions you have, I will do my best to answer. Whatever you want me to do, I will endeavour to see accomplished. I have no quarrel, but I also have little patience."

"Why are you here, Elf?" Thongvor asked.

"Because Jarl Igmund asked me to," he said simply.

Thongvor shook his head and spat into the fire, which hissed in indignation. "I thought you weren't going to play games. No Thalmor, let alone _you,_ does anything because a Nord, even a Jarl, asks. Tell me the goddamn truth." Blue eyes burned with hatred, and his fists clenched his brown, quilted jacket.

Ondolemar sighed. "You won't like it."

"I already don't like it."

"For whatever reason, Jarl Igmund is extremely anxious to see this battle go our way, and like a true Nord, you don't have any mages in your army. Hagravens and briarhearts can do huge damage to those unprepared. Jarl Igmund sent me to counter their magic and do some damage of my own," he said.

"And the part that I won't like?" he asked, rising slowly from his chair. He was an imposing, battle hardened Nord. His frame was much larger than that of Ondolemar's, but the elf was still taller.

"As you rightly pointed out, I do not serve the whim of Jarl Igmund, so he made me a deal I couldn't refuse." There was a moments silence as Thongvor took a step towards Ondolemar. "He gave me the Shrine of Talos."

Thongvor swore loudly and swung around. He kicked the chair to the ground and let out a deep shout before wheeling back and facing Ondolemar once more, his chest heaving, his fists clenched and his teeth gritted. He leaned forward and jabbed a meaty finger at the elf. For Ondolemar's part, he did not move an inch.

"You snake. You and Igmund. How could he hand over a sacred-"

"Careful, Nord," said Ondolemar with a threatening hiss. "One more word like that, and the Dominion will brand you a heretic. Your whole damn family is on thin ice as it is, and not even Thongvor Silver-Blood is beyond my reach." He pushed himself away from the support pole and faced Thongvor with an ominous calm.

Thongvor wanted to hurt him, and Ondolemar knew it. A sadistic part of him wanted to push Thongvor as far as possible, but he refused to give in. He was surrounded by his army after all.

"It wasn't so long ago that I spilt gallons of eleven blood in the Great War," Thongvor said with a grimace and hateful eyes. "My axe carved up so many of your kin, and Skyrim yearns for more. One day, when Ulfric Stormcloak is High King, we'll be on opposite sides of a battlefield, and I will sniff you out and cut my way through every elf in between my axe and your throat."

Ondolemar couldn't help it. "I remember those battles too. Young Nords threw themselves at me like you're gagging to, but they never got close. Steel armour does the same job as a kettle, you know? The smell of men boiling inside their kettles is something I will not forget, and the sound they made as they screamed for a mercy that I would not give… you're right, Silver-Blood, that war will come again, and I look forward to it."

Thongvor raised a hand to strike Ondolemar down, but Ondolemar caught it. He dragged Thongvor towards him and pressed their foreheads together. The mug left his hand, and he could feel red wine run down his naked torso. Thongvor's vision was filled only with the snake-green eyes of the Thalmor.

"But!" shouted Ondolemar, spittle flying from his mouth. "That day is not here. Tomorrow, as much as we might loathe it, we are on the same side. Control yourself, Silver-Blood, because you need my magic to win this battle," he said. He wheeled them both around and slammed Thongvor into the tent pole, causing the whole structure to shake. "Jarl Igmund is right to be anxious, and he was right to send me. After we slaughter those animals, you may never have to see me again."

Thongvor pushed Ondolemar away, and they stood glaring. Ondolemar hastily closed his unravelled gown and stood tall, refusing to back down from the stalemate. Thongvor had come too close to losing control, and Ondolemar prayed that he would leave. His prayer was answered. With one last phlegm onto the ground, Thongvor fled from the tent in a rage. Ondolemar could hear him hitting and kicking everything in his way, and his brutal Nord shouts echoed into the night.

With a deep sigh of relief, he gently picked up his chair and sprawled himself onto it. His robe unravelled itself once more, but he did not bother to do it back up. He groaned as he lamented the distance between him and the carafe of wine. His headache had returned.


End file.
